Reunion
by The Irish Chauffeur
Summary: In the aftermath of the burning of Cork and Skerries House, Tom Branson vanished; later believed to have been killed at Allihies in Ireland in January 1921. After he returned to Downton Abbey in June 1921, what then happened? For those of you who so loved "Home Is Where The Heart Is", a sequel beginning where that story ended; a lead in to "The Rome Express".
1. Chapter 1

**So, in an attempt to satisfy those of you who have written to me and asked what then happened immediately after Tom returned to Downton, well…**

Chapter One

Return Of The Prodigal Son

As the summer sky continued inexorably to darken and the first few drops of rain began to fall, with the noise of the fair drifting towards them in the hot still air, together, the Bransons and the Crawleys strolled contentedly across the wide expanse of green lawn and towards the distant house; the happiness surrounding the two families being almost tangible.

Having promised faithfully to answer everyone's questions in due course, at least for the moment and understandably so, Tom only had eyes both for his beautiful dark haired wife and for his young family. By tacit, unspoken agreement he and Sybil together led the way back to the abbey. To everyone else following in their wake, it was obvious that for the present the two of them were all but lost in their own private world; heedless of all propriety, arm in arm, continuing their exchange of lingering, loving glances, hushed and whispered words of endearment, and a welter of gentle touches and soft kisses. As Sybil cradled Saiorse against her in one arm, her other was wrapped tightly around Tom's waist while, now wearing his father's cap, Tom had hoisted young Danny atop of his broad shoulders.

Behind the happy young couple walked the rest of the equally delighted family, among them the earl of Grantham, although Robert seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was trailing behind the family's erstwhile chauffeur. However, if the present earl of Grantham had failed to notice the complete reversal of the social order, it had not escaped the vigilant eye of the Dowager Countess. Irrespective of dear Tom's antecedents, as lord and master here, in her view it should have been Robert leading the way back to the abbey.

This apart, several minutes earlier, on reaching Tom and Sybil, Robert had immediately taken a firm grasp of his Irish son-in-law's right hand and pumped it almost unceasingly, had repeated the words "My dear, dear boy!" over and over again. Then, when Tom had made some off the cuff remark about the fact that he supposed he would have to change for dinner, Robert had said that given what Tom must have been through that mattered not one whit. Thereafter, as Robert continued to beam from ear to ear, Violet had begun to wonder if her son had taken complete leave of his senses.

As she and Cousin Isobel slowly brought up the rear of the party, the Dowager Countess reflected sanguinely that to date there had been but one recorded case of incipient madness in the Crawley dynasty and that adroitly managed to the extent that no-one outside the immediate family knew anything about it.

Admittedly, it had all occurred two centuries ago, when a direct descendant of the eldest son of the second earl, he who had so disgraced himself by supporting the cause of Parliament in the Civil War, had begun to behave very oddly indeed. Had begun mixing great thoughtfulness and generosity towards his tenants and employees - for which read Branson - with a disarming degree of aloofness and arbitrary actions and behaviour towards his own family. The latter had taken a variety of forms amongst which was the habit of communicating with his two unmarried sisters who lived here with him at Downton only by letter delivered to them by a footman. So, if instead of asking her to dine each evening at the abbey, Robert started writing long rambling letters to her at the Dower House, Violet would know that the time had come to take matters firmly in hand which indeed might prove necessary as, rregrettably, there was, of course, precedent for these unfortunate lapses to resurrect themselves in later generations.

Nevertheless, one had to be thankful for small mercies; after all this was England not Bavaria and the Crawleys were not the Wittelsbachs. With Matthew and Mary now happily married and anticipating a happy event of their own, the succession to the earldom was apparently now secured. Of course, there was the slim chance that the expected, long-awaited son and heir might turn out be a girl but Mary was convinced her child would be a boy. In any case, if her first child was a girl, no doubt next time around, it would indeed be the requisite son and heir.

So, thought Violet, if, in due course it transpired that Robert had to be discretely taken away and confined at some remote location in order that the Crawleys did not become a topic of conversation, then so be it. Somewhere close at hand but, in order to preserve the family's reputation, also out of the county. The Northumberland County Lunatic Asylum, just across the border in the county of the same name, would do very well indeed; failing that, if Robert could be managed, if necessary kept sedated, then, perhaps, somewhere closer to home, say, the North Riding County Asylum at Clifton near York.

* * *

Of course, Cora on the other hand could be forgiven for her open display of affection towards the returned Irish prodigal upon his wholly unexpected reappearance but then, after all, she was an American. As Violet had closely observed, Cora had indeed been visibly much overcome by Tom's unexpected return, had been openly demonstrative of the fact but this had far more to do with something else and nothing whatsoever with what Violet ascribed to be a regrettable consequence of what she herself saw as her daughter-in-law's unfortunate colonial antecedents.

While, naturally, Robert had tried to spare her the details of what had happened at Allihies, whatever Violet's opinion of her, Cora was no fool. Seeing how overcome her husband had been by the news conveyed to him by Matthew contained in the letter he had received from Lieutenant Bentley at the Victoria Barracks in Cork, intuitively she had realised that Robert was keeping something back from her; especially when he had said there was no hope of Tom being found alive. That being the case, Cora had pressed Robert to tell her exactly what it was that had happened. When, finally, she learned what had come to pass at the abandoned mine at Allihies over on the far west coast of Ireland, seated in her bedroom Cora had been utterly appalled and horrified.

"Alive you say?" Her hand had flown to cover her mouth. She had felt sick to the very pit of her stomach. "How could anyone do such a terrible thing?"

"Matthew described it as man's inhumanity to man," had replied Robert and nodding his head in sad affirmation of the fact whereupon having had already to break the terrible news to Sybil upstairs, he had then broken down completely as Cora herself burst into heart-rending cries.

Now, in their shared grief, not only for the death of darling Tom but also for Sybil and her children, let alone their own individual sense of loss, together, enfolded in each other's arms, in an attempt to console each other, Robert and Cora had held each other tightly. Their embrace did little to muffle the sound of their shared sobbing, of which, on this occasion both remained entirely heedless, as together completely distraught, they had mourned for the son-in-law whose engagement and marriage to their youngest daughter they had both, albeit for different reasons, once bitterly opposed.

A short while later, having done her very best to compose herself, in her own grief realising that it must be nothing as compared to what darling Sybil herself must be experiencing, red-eyed from weeping, Cora had gone upstairs and knocked quietly on the door of the day nursery, praying that Nanny Bridges and whom she herself had engaged, would not be in attendance.

"Come in," called Sybil, her voice to Cora sounding clear and, all things considered, both surprisingly firm and resolute.

Opening the door and then closing it swiftly behind her, on the threshold of the nursery, Cora paused. Across the large, airy room, over by the window, through which there streamed bright sunshine somehow both at variance with and belying the enormity of what had happened, both outwardly calm and composed, there sat Sybil in her nurse's uniform. With Saiorse in her arms, while in front of her little Danny played contentedly on the floor with a group of wooden farm animals which Cora knew had once belonged to Tom when he was a child, the three of them all made the perfect picture of a young working mother and her children. Of course neither Danny nor Saiorse had any idea what had occurred; that their father would never return. Saiorse of course would have no memory whatsoever of Tom, but with Danny it was different, for, although the little boy was but scarce a year old, from Sybil, Cora had learned that father and son had been especially close.

And yet, in the face of the appalling news from Ireland, as re-laid to her by her father instead of dissolving into tears, Sybil had remained dry-eyed throughout; had, said Robert, remained remarkably and unaccountably composed. And, it was now on entering the day nursery that Cora herself saw this to be so. There sat Sybil sat, talking to little Danny or else quietly staring out of the window; had not, as might have been expected, resorted either to wailing or to lamentations. No doubt she was as utterly appalled as Cora herself had been. But when Sybil slowly turned her head, Cora saw that the expression on her daughter's face was not one of grief at all. Sybil seemed… unmoved? No, that was not it either. What then? And, now, as she considered the matter further, Cora remembered something else which Sybil had told her during one of their many recent fireside chats.

Following Tom's disappearance, with Skerries House having been burned to the ground, following Sybil's return here to Downton, most evenings sitting for some time on their own together in Sybil's old bedroom, before Saiorse had been born and with Danny sleeping peacefully beside her in his cot, from her youngest daughter, the countess of Grantham had learned a very great deal of what had befallen Tom and Sybil while they lived at Skerries. She now knew all there was to know of what had happened there to Tom when he was but little more than a boy, how his cousin Maeve had tried to use him as an innocent scapegoat to conceal her incestuous passion for her brother Christopher and of the child that had been born of that illicit union.

What had become subsequently of Maeve, Sybil had known nothing until, some time after her return here to Downton, when Matthew had gently explained to her of what he had learned of the shooting at the Imperial Hotel in Cork which had killed a British officer named Stathum and his fiancée. Not that Sybil had shed a tear for either of them; Captain Miles Stathum, as Mary and Edith could well attest had been an exceedingly unpleasant individual who had done his very best to make Tom's life as difficult as possible for reasons which Sybil did not full understand although, of course, for the present, she knew nothing of the part Stathum had played in Tom's disappearance. As for Maeve, given how she had so abused and hurt Tom, Sybil shed not a single tear; as you sow, so shall you reap. She did, however, spare a thought for the young lad she had seen at the farm, wondered if he knew what had happened to his real mother. Still, with Skerries burned and Maeve now dead, all that was now in the past. Leave it so.

The overwhelming impression that Cora gained from her fireside chats with Sybil was just how undeniably well suited she and Tom had been. How could any of them here at Downton, herself included, not have seen this to be so? Horrified as Cora had been to learn finally the full extent of how as an orphan, Tom had been both abused and appallingly treated by those who should have protected him, she drew comfort from the fact that once he was happily married to Sybil, the memory of what he had suffered had begun to fade, eventually passed beyond the point of recall and no longer had the power to hurt him.

The picture that Sybil painted for her mother was of a couple who were absolutely devoted to each other and who trusted each other implicitly. Without any embarrassment, Sybil had said that each night, as they drifted off to sleep, it was Tom's name that she whispered and he, in turn, hers; it was Tom's blue eyes that met hers each morning and Sybil would not have changed any of it for the world. That Tom loved Sybil deeply and that she in turn adored him, that they were pledged to each other, heart and soul, Cora already knew to be the case. That they shared an intense physical need of each other, something which, on the morning of Mary's marriage to dearest Matthew, Cora herself had described as "fun", again without embarrassment, Sybil now readily admitted to her mother; a passion that was, she said, at times overwhelming. Tom had but to smile at her, to touch her however chastely, even just to glance at her across a crowded room and she would find herself suffused with an irresistible desire for him; something which she could never see changing, even as they grew old.

"Was this how it was for you and Papa?" asked Sybil softly as having crossed the room to check on little Danny, she returned to sit by the fire. In the quiet of the lamp lit bedroom, Cora had stared intently into the flames for a few moments before replying. She lifted her head and then ghosted a smile.

"Don't embarrass…" Cora began but then, unexpectedly, she stopped what she had been about to say; instead looked directly at her youngest daughter. Sybil had been candid with her and she deserved an honest answer in return.

"That part of our marriage, has always been… satisfactory but have either your Papa or I ever experienced the depth of feelings for each other that you and Tom share?" Cora gently shook her head. "No, never but then I suspect that few couples are as blest as the two of you have been".

This frank exchange on the more intimate aspects of a marriage apart, much of what Cora also learned during her evening talks with Sybil was of mundane things: in summer of Tom repairing his newly acquired motorcycle by the front steps of Skerries House and when the opportunity permitted it, their shared long walks together, arm in arm, along the wide sweep of the sea strand down below the sea girt mansion and, if Danny came with them, as he almost invariably did, paddling at the water's edge, looking for shells and Tom skylarking about in one of the many rock pools; of the occasional trip by train into Cork and of the bustling, lively city as it had been, with a visits to both the thriving English Market and its many, colourful stalls selling all kinds of merchandise and then before they caught the train back to Skerries Road spending time at one of Tom's favourite haunts, the Carnegie Library, just off Albert Quay and which had been destroyed in the burning of Cork on the same night that Tom had vanished.

In winter the scenes Sybil conjured were perforce confined to indoors but because of that made even more homely: the warm, lamp lit kitchen of the decaying house, with, on a wild wet night, she and little Danny seated together by the range eagerly awaiting Tom's return and then the three of them seated together around the scrubbed table enjoying their evening meal. Of the cosy domesticity of them both sitting in the drawing room, she beside the fire darning his socks - at the image that evoked, Cora had indeed lofted a brow; Tom at his desk, typing out yet another article, to send back to distant Dublin; explaining with a rueful smile that at times, Tom's language became somewhat colourful, especially when he found himself lost for a word or a phrase or else when his thoughts on something ran away with themselves before he could get everything down on paper.

And there had been that something else too.

Sybil had spoken with a complete and unassailable conviction that she and Tom shared such a perfect understanding that Sybil was convinced that if anything had indeed happened to him, she would have known about it; would have received some sign but that even then death would not end their union. They were, she said, bound to each other for eternity.

Of course, Cora's upbringing railed against such a fanciful notion but on reflection, who was she, someone who as a young girl had been despatched across the Atlantic to marry a man she did not love, in fact scarcely even knew; her fortune to be used to shore up the crumbling foundations, almost in a literal sense, all in exchange for an aristocratic title, that of countess of Grantham. That she and Robert had reached their own form of understanding was to be commended but if something happened to Robert would she herself know? Cora thought not. They did not and never would share the same depth of passion that clearly existed between dearest Tom and darling Sybil.

Naturally, the Dowager Countess knew nothing of the heartfelt conversation between her own daughter and youngest grand daughter which had chanced to pass one evening in Sybil's bedroom; indeed Violet never would and, for that matter, neither would anyone else.

However, it was because of that conversation, that when Tom had reappeared so unexpectedly before them all, Cora alone knew how much his longed for, safe return would mean to Sybil; knew too how deeply and passionately he cared for her, knew how complete Sybil's life was made by him and it was for this reason that the welcome home Cora extended to darling Tom had been so fervent. So, as the countess of Grantham and the others followed slowly in the wake of Tom and Sybil, he dressed in the rough clothes of a working man, she in her nurse's uniform, the two of them arm in arm, carrying their children, seeing them so openly demonstrative in their feelings, the loving glances, the gentle touches, the soft kisses and as they walked, Sybil's head resting contentedly against Tom's broad shoulder, Cora nodded to herself seeing in all of this merely visible confirmation of all that Sybil had told her.

* * *

As for Matthew, he was absolutely delighted by his best friend and brother-in-law's seemingly miraculous return from the dead; was eager to learn more, as indeed were they all, as to how Tom had survived what had happened to him and the other prisoners at Allihies and moreover, where on earth it was Tom had been for the last six months so as to prevent any trace of him having been found, either by the British military authorities or else by the private detective agency which Matthew had engaged. He was positively delighted to see Tom looking fit and well, sunburnt and obviously full of both health and vitality. There was more to all of this that met the eye and Matthew was agog to hear what Tom had to tell.

After his exemplary, not to say heroic conduct here at Downton on the night of the fire, that Tom was thoroughly dependable and resourceful, Matthew did not doubt. By his unselfish actions, Tom had shown that to one and all and in the process earned the grateful, heartfelt thanks of the entire family, Matthew included. Yet even if each knew the other to be both thoroughly decent and honourable too, saw in the other a kindred spirit, considered him to be the brother he had never had, if the truth be told, Matthew was somewhat in awe of Tom. After all, both he and Sybil had had the courage of their convictions to do what they had done. Would he and Mary have dared to flout convention and propriety? Matthew some how doubted that. No, be honest; they would not have done. Mary cared greatly what people thought and so too, albeit to a far lesser extent, did Matthew himself.

This apart, Matthew could not have been happier; while shaking him warmly by the hand, had ribbed Tom good-naturedly about his lack of sartorial elegance and had told him he needed a good shave. What was more, although judging by the way he and Sybil were looking at each other, Tom might well have other plans and who could blame him if he had, after dinner, if Tom was up for it, Matthew was looking forward to a decent game of billiards; his aristocratic father-in-law having proved a lacklustre opponent.

Besides which, with Mary expecting their first child, Matthew had some questions to ask in private of Tom and which he felt only he could answer. After all, he could hardly broach the subject with Robert who, while doting on his three daughters, had proved rather hopeless at the whole business of fatherhood, especially as his little girls grew and then matured into three spirited young women. Both Sybil and Tom appeared to have taken to parenthood like ducks to water. Watching Tom as he walked along with little Danny sitting on his shoulders merely served to re-affirm this and it was obvious to Matthew that his brother-in-law was very comfortable with the realities of fatherhood; just as Sybil had taken to motherhood as if it had been created for her.

Both Mary and he had been desperate to start a family, something which seemed to have caused Tom and Sybil no problem whatsoever. With Mary and he though, the matter of _it_ had not proved so straightforward and when things did not go as planned there had been all those embarrassing tests and questions to which both of them had to submit, although, once the problem had been identified and Mary had undergone a minor surgical procedure, not long afterwards she had fallen pregnant so they must have been doing something right! And, to slightly misquote Shakespeare, Matthew now fervently hoped that all which had, eventually, started well would, in due course, end well too.

However, while Matthew had been very much smitten with the idea of becoming a father, he had soon realised that the reality of it, when it sunk in, was proving somewhat different to how he had imagined it to be. Like Tom, his own father had died young and like Tom he too had been an only child so there had been no-one to ask about certain… matters. There, of course, the similarity between the two of them ended. Living rough on the streets of Dublin, in order to survive, Tom had learned how to fend for himself, something which Matthew had never had to do. As a result, at a comparatively early age, Tom had become worldly wise in all manner of things, some of which he had imparted to his best friend and brother-in-law, some of which he had not. But just now, having seen ample evidence of how good Tom was proving at coping with the demands of fatherhood, if this evening's chat with him materialised it would, thought Matthew, help to put his mind at rest and dispel the feelings of total inadequacy he had at the prospect of becoming a father. However, knowing Tom's sense of humour, no doubt to begin with, Tom would do his very best to make Matthew feel he was even more hopeless than he imagined himself to be.

As they now neared the house, Matthew found himself smiling broadly.

He had never had the courage to ask Mary exactly what the difficulty had been which had prevented her from conceiving a child in the first place and, even if his nerve had not failed him in this regard, he would have thought it quite indelicate to do so. On the other hand, had Sybil experienced such a problem, then he had no doubt whatsoever that both she and Tom would have been quite open with each other and, given the fact that she was a nurse, they would probably have sat up late into the night discussing it all. Although from what Tom had told him, it was likely that they would have been otherwise occupied in the active pursuit of far more pleasurable nocturnal activities!

* * *

As Mary had said to Sybil, while they were both sitting outside the old garage, she owed an enormous debt of gratitude to her brother-in-law and when, like darling Matthew, she had believed Tom dead, Mary had been utterly distraught; knew that Sybil would be utterly bereft without him and then, when he reappeared before them all on the lawn, she had been overjoyed.

In the dreadful aftermath of the bomb explosion at the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary's opinion of Tom had undergone a complete volte face. As she had freely admitted to Sybil, not only had he had the courage to tell her a few home truths about herself, but he had also shown himself to be a true gentleman in every sense of the word; as well as physically and morally courageous. She thought back to how he had rescued Sybil and Edith in the aftermath of the explosion, how later, single-handedly he had stood up to the might of the British Army when soldiers had raided the cèilidh held after Tom and Sybil had been married and how here at Downton he had guided and shepherded all the family to safety across the icy leads of the abbey roof. Moreover, he had proved to be what Sybil had always said he was, deeply loving of her and now a wonderful father to their two children.

Long ago, Mary had come to realise that she and Tom were in fact kindred spirits. Both were passionate about what they believed in and were equally pragmatic when it came to finding a way of accommodating each other here at Downton. And for both of them, family meant everything and, given the fact that by marriage Tom was very much part of her family, Mary knew in her heart that, come what may, she would fight tooth and nail to defend him. That said, as with Matthew, Mary often found Tom's sense of humour to be not only unintelligible but also unpredictable. Even so, when those two "boys", as Mama laughingly referred to them, were together in the billiards room after dinner, both Sybil and Mary were in agreement: they would dearly like to be the proverbial fly on the wall to hear what was being said about them by their husbands.

And it was Tom's sense of humour that had risen decidedly to the fore when he had greeted Mary this afternoon upon his return. Picking up on her father and husband's observations about Tom's decided lack of sartorial elegance, after the warmest of embraces, Mary had stood back and looked Tom up and down. She smiled. No wonder Sybil had fallen for him; for, Matthew apart, darling Tom had to be the handsomest man she had encountered. Mary's eyebrows twitched expressively.

"Did you lose your suitcase on the way over, Tom?" she asked, trying desperately to keep a straight face. Dressed in the height of fashion, wearing an elegant black and white dress, which did nothing to disguise the bulk of her advancing pregnancy, Mary looked radiant; impending motherhood suited her. Tom grinned.

"And I thought penguins only lived in Antarctica!"

Matthew chuckled and slipped his arm around his wife's waist, pulling her close.

"Yes, she does look rather like a penguin, doesn't she?"

Honestly! Mary raised her eyes and sighed with resignation. She should have known better. When these two were together…

* * *

After Sybil, Edith had been the next member of the family to greet Tom. Having handed Saiorse to Sybil, when Tom had finished becoming acquainted with his little daughter, he had placed her gently in Sybil's arms. Looking up he saw Edith regarding him furtively and through downcast eyes. Well aware of how much she cared for him, in turn, Tom was very fond of Edith; recognised her true nature and hoped that one day she would find someone to love her as much as he loved Sybil.

"Edith?" Seeing the tears glistening in her eyes, Tom opened his arms wide and without further ado she walked forward into the warmth of his embrace, content as but minutes earlier, Sybil had been, just to be held. She rested her head against his chest.

"Tom, darling…" As Tom continued to hold her, Edith got no further with words. Her voice faltered and her eyes misted with tears. Well, let them, she thought.

"_Bí i do thost anois, a rúnsearc_," Tom murmured softly and kissing her gently on the forehead. Conscious of where they were, they drew slowly apart, Tom continuing to regard Edith thoughtfully and to hold her lightly by the hands. He grinned broadly.

"So then, do I take it then, that you missed me?" He chuckled.

"What do you think? Welcome home, dearest Tom!"

As Tom turned to speak with both granny and to Cousin Isobel, for a long moment, as Mary had done before her, Edith regarded her Irish brother-in-law thoughtfully.

Despite all of what had happened over there in Ireland, all the terrible heartache that Sybil had suffered, Edith would, in an instant, gladly have changed places with her youngest sister; knew that if Tom had asked her to do so, had he been there to meet her, she would have walked barefoot in her nightgown all the way to Constantinople. Edith envied Sybil her good fortune; truly, she did, now recalling to mind how it was in the magnificent splendour of the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel, just after Mary had left, even before the bomb had exploded, that, having heard Tom's declaration of love for Sybil, she herself had first come to really appreciate him; could, even now, recall the very words he had spoken which had touched her heart:

"_I love your younger sister. I always have. I absolutely adore her. I love her to distraction. I want to spend the rest of my life with her, want to have children with her. There never has been … there never, ever, could be, anybody for me, but Sybil"._

To have found someone like Tom who loved her to distraction and whom she truly adored, Sybil was very lucky indeed. To love and be loved in return were the greatest of all possible gifts. Unexpectedly, Edith found herself thinking back, further in time to that long gone night at the Swan Inn; to the moment just before the three of them returned here to Downton, to the look of pure love she had seen then on Sybil's face as she had gazed at Tom across the dimly lit hotel bedroom. Edith hoped desperately that one day someone would look upon her that way.

There was, of course, that Austrian archaeologist, at the Archaeological Institute in Vienna, who had seemed to take an interest in her and whom she had first seen at the reception given for Professor Franz Studniczka from the University of Leipzig and who she had encountered again at a series of lectures given by Professor Karl Watzinger on the excavations of synagogues in Galilee. Not that they had been introduced, let alone spoken; Friedrich somebody or other… a man of considerable private means so it was said, who owned a beautiful estate, somewhere south of the Austrian capital. Edith sighed. If only Tom…

No, it did not do to dwell upon the past, so, instead, Edith summoned up a smile that belied her own inner feelings. As she raised her head, she found Matthew's eyes upon her. He smiled and nodded, recalling to mind what she had said to him earlier that same day up on Rylestone Ridge while they sat their horses on the edge of Bluebell Wood overlooking the railway; knew instinctively that for Edith, Tom's homecoming was bittersweet; a two-edged sword.

* * *

Knowing just how happy he made her youngest grand daughter, the Dowager Countess of Grantham was equally delighted to see the safe return here to Downton of her Irish grandson-in-law. Not that Violet was as effusive as some other members of the family had been in her welcome of Tom. While she was, as she had freely admitted, a woman of many parts, effusiveness was not in her nature. Nonetheless, she was genuinely glad to see him; would never forget how bravely and selflessly he had acquitted himself over there in Ireland at the Shelbourne Hotel and also here at Downton on the night of the fire; circumstances which would have unnerved a lesser man. How was it that Kipling had put it?

_If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs…_

And, there were, reflected Violet, more lines in that same poem which also could apply to Tom:-

_If you can dream and not make dreams your master;  
If you can think and not make thoughts your aim;  
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster  
And treat those two impostors just the same…_

_If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,  
Or walk with Kings nor lose the common touch..._

Yes, Tom was undoubtedly someone who seemed able to relate to one and all. Not that Violet really approved of anyone having the _common touch_. Social distinctions needed to be maintained. Still, times had changed and things were not as they once were. That Tom could be relied upon was obvious, as indeed was the fact that he was every inch a man. Even at nearly four score years and ten Violet could see that, so no wonder darling Sybil had fallen for him and it was very clear that he absolutely doted upon her. Was it any surprise then that…

Discretely, Violet regarded Edith. It was high time that she found someone of her own. Not that Violet altogether blamed her younger grand-daughter; after all, dear Tom was undeniably handsome. It was now though, as the Dowager Countess regarded her Irish grandson-in-law through her lorgnette that she noticed something she had not realised before. The more she watched him, the more she realised that Tom reminded her of someone from her past; someone whom she had not thought of in years and who, as a young woman, she had met long ago, in St. Petersburg. The resemblance was indeed quite startling; yes, give Tom a haircut and put him in the uniform of an officer of the elite Preobrazhensky Regiment and there he was: Captain Alexei Sheremetev, a scion of one of the noblest and wealthiest families of Old Russia.

Violet and her late husband had travelled there to Russia, as guests of the Sheremetevs and to witness the splendour of the coronation of the late Tsar's father, Alexander III, early in the summer of 1883. Good Lord! That had been a lifetime ago and nearly half a century had passed since she herself had trod the broad pavements of the Nevsky Prospect in St. Petersburg ; Violet found herself now wondering how many of the people she had met and the beautiful places she had visited had survived the traumatic upheaval of the violent revolution that had swept Russia in 1917 and brought down the centuries old Romanov dynasty. If Alexei was still alive, why, he would be an old man now. No, it did not do to become maudlin and dwell on the past. Violet heard Sybil laughing; watched, as placing his workman's cap on the little boy's head, Tom now hoisted his giggling son, Violet's great grandson, onto his broad shoulders. The Dowager Countess smiled. Before her, in the guise of a lively sixteen month old baby boy there beckoned the future; so, time to bid farewell to the past.

* * *

Isobel Crawley was as delighted as anyone in the family by Tom's unexpected reappearance. After such a long absence, especially after the terrible news from Ireland when all had believed the very worst, Isobel was overjoyed that Tom had returned alive and well to Downton; not only for the sake of darling Sybil and the children, but also for Matthew's sake too. After all, Isobel knew very well just how much her son Matthew had grown both to admire and to respect Tom, thought of him as the brother he had always so much wanted and never had; knew too, more than anyone, Mary excepted, just how devastated Matthew had been by the dreadful news from Ireland when it was believed Tom had been killed and in the most appalling circumstances imaginable.

Isobel was also aware that Matthew did not give his friendship easily. At both preparatory and public school he had cut rather a diffident, solitary figure while during the war, as a captain in the army, Matthew had kept himself very much to himself. Put simply, he was, by nature, both quiet and reticent. So, for Tom to have drawn Matthew so much out of himself and for the two men to have become such close friends in such a comparatively short space of time said a very great deal about the softly spoken Irishman. Naturally, Isobel would dearly have loved to have had more children, but after giving birth to Matthew, sadly, no others had followed. So, given the fact that long ago she herself had recognised the inherent decency in Tom Branson, in a way Isobel herself had come to look upon him as the second son she had never had.

* * *

Having given the small package for Lady Sybil directly into the hands of its intended recipient, Mrs. Hughes had returned straightway to the house. A short while later, just as the family ambled slowly back across the lawn, the housekeeper came up from below stairs in search of Mr. Carson whom she found in the hall, attending to the afternoon's post.

"Mr. Carson, about this evening's…" she began and then stopped in mid-sentence, like the earl of Grantham but a short while earlier, disbelieving the very evidence of her own eyes. "Oh, my, will you look Mr. Carson!" Mrs. Hughes now pointed excitedly in the direction of the group of people crossing the gravel towards the house. The old butler followed the direction of the housekeeper's gaze and seeing who she had seen, metaphorically speaking, his jaw dropped several inches towards the ground.

"It can't be…" he blustered.

Moments later, just as the storm which had been threatening at last broke overhead, led by Tom and Sybil, he with little Danny still sitting on his shoulders and she with Saiorse in her arms, the entire family reached the front door of the abbey. Seeing the old butler and housekeeper standing together side by side at the entrance to the house, Tom remained impassive; nodded his head as if he had just ambled up to the abbey from the village and which, at least in one sense, it could be argued, was exactly what he had done.

"Hello, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes," Tom said and in the most prosaic of tones.

For his part, after a lifetime spent in domestic service, Mr. Carson was not one who allowed either emotion or personal feelings ever to cloud his judgement or to interfere with the performance of his hallowed duties as butler here at Downton Abbey and, even with a clearly overjoyed Mrs. Hughes standing beside him, nor did he do so now.

"Good afternoon, sir. And may I say that I am certain that I speak for everyone here on the domestic staff, Mrs. Hughes and myself included, when I tell you that we are very glad to see you safe and sound and looking so well".

At that, Tom broke into a smile and nodded his head again.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. I'm very glad to be back, for sure".

**Author's Note:**

From 1180-1918, the Wittelsbachs were the ruling house of Bavaria. Some of its members were decidedly odd, among them Ludwig II (1845-1886) who succeeded to the throne when he was eighteen years old, formed a close friendship with the composer Wagner and proceeded to spend all the royal revenues on lavish artistic and architectural projects. Ludwig was subsequently deposed in 1886 on the grounds of insanity. If, as some assert, Ludwig was not insane, modern opinion is agreed that his younger brother Otto (1848-1916) was an undiagnosed schizophrenic.

Professor Franz Studniczka (1860-1929) was a German professor of classical archaeology who had studied in Vienna.

Professor Karl Watzinger (1877-1948 was a German born archaeologist and a member of the Austrian Archaeological Institute.

The lines quoted by Violet come from Rudyard Kipling's well-known poem, "If".

The Preobrazhensky Regiment was one of the oldest of the elite regiments in the Russian Imperial Army. Disbanded in 1917 in the aftermath of the Russian Revolution, it was reformed in 2013.

Before the Russian Revolution, the Sheremetevs were indeed one of the wealthiest and influential noble families in Russia. There may well have been an Alexei somewhere in the family tree!

The Nevsky Prospect was then the main thoroughfare in St. Petersburg.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Settling In

After all the euphoria and excitement of the last few hours, here, alone at last, in the quiet and peaceful stillness of Sybil's old bedroom, with the lamp on the night stand turned down low, their right hands clasped tightly together and resting just above his heart, they lay facing each other in bed; Sybil watching carefully over Tom as he slept.

With the heavy curtains drawn back, the sash window stood wide open to admit the warm night air and it was now that from somewhere outside, far beyond the great house, lost in the moonlit darkness there arose the shrill, piercing cry of a night jar which echoed harshly across the vast expanse of the vast park, causing Tom to stir fitfully once again in his slumbers; as indeed he had done several times tonight already.

Once again he shifted uneasily, whimpered softly and mumbled something completely unintelligible. However, now, just as before, each and every time he had done so, once again Sybil stroked his hair tenderly and gently kissed his forehead; murmured to him hushed words not only of profound endearment, of just how much she loved him, but also by way of calming reassurance that there was nothing at all for him to fear; that he was utterly safe, that she was here and that no-one, nobody would ever hurt him again.

As her soft lips brushed tenderly against his eyelids, Tom sighed contentedly, snuggled closer, his lashes light as feather down against his cheeks. Watching him settle back to sleep, herself beginning to drift down into comfortable slumber, Sybil smiled contentedly to herself. She could scarcely believe her own good fortune that after so many lonely days, nights when she had cried herself to sleep, the empty weeks and months, finally, at long last, they were together once more; Tom back where he belonged and lying by her side in their bed.

And, reflected Sybil with a knowing smile and a contented, languorous stretch, Mama had been right after all.

Having said goodnight, when they had both then retired, unexpectedly the countess of Grantham had accompanied them as far as the hall, to the foot of the main staircase, where, despite their protests, Cora had insisted to Tom and Sybil that tonight young Danny and little Saiorse should sleep in the night nursery under the care and watchful eyes of Mrs. Bridges; for, as she had said quietly as she hugged and kissed them both lightly, "tonight of all nights my darlings you need time for yourselves".

As if to reassure herself that the euphoria of the past few hours was all not part of some manifestly unfair dream, that he was not just a figment of her imagination, that Tom was indeed real, Sybil now reached forward and lightly brushed her fingers against the soft fabric of the vest which Tom habitually wore in bed and which, along with a pair of his pyjama bottoms, she had saved from the burning of Skerries House. The caress of her fingers caused Tom to stir. He sighed, hugged her to him and, moments later, enfolded in his strong arms, Sybil herself had drifted off to a dreamless and contented sleep.

* * *

Here at Downton Abbey, on what turned out to be a beautiful June morning, on the morrow after Tom's wholly astounding and most welcome return, shortly after breakfast was over, while awaiting Matthew coming downstairs from saying farewell to Mary to join his father-in-law for a further visit out to High Moor Farm, this time to survey the tithe barn and the dilapidated outbuildings, in a decidedly reflective mood, the earl of Grantham was to be found sitting at his large mahogany desk in the Library.

Laying down his Conway Stewart fountain pen and now smiling broadly to himself, Robert happened to glance out of the window, across the park and towards the brooding, distant eminence of Rylestone Ridge; from which same lofty vantage point late the previous morning Matthew and Edith had sat their horses and watched as Tom had jumped down from the slowing train close to Downton Halt. It promised, thought Robert, to be another beautiful day with the likelihood this year too of there being a long, hot summer, one perhaps to rival that of 1914. With gentle rain most nights and sun-filled days, with all manner of crops and plants across the estate and elsewhere in the county now burgeoning and well advanced for the time of year, there was the prospect also of an excellent harvest.

The earl of Grantham had been writing a letter of apology, to Archie Douglas, Lord Strathfearn; to profusely tender, yet again, to his old friend, his sincerest regrets for the very last minute cancellation made by the earl of Grantham by telephone the previous afternoon, of the intended visit of the Strathfearns to Downton Abbey for a few days while en route to their Irish estate, Rathnure House in County Wexford in the south east of Ireland. This had been done at Cora's urgent insistence and importunate entreaty; indeed she would brook no opposition in the matter and which had followed hard upon Tom's delightful and altogether unexpected reappearance here at Downton.

Of course, Robert had known Archie for years. They had met first at Christchurch when they had both gone up to Oxford, long before Archie's marriage to Margaret Fitzwilliam as she was then and now Lady Strathfearn. While the earl of Grantham hated last minute alterations of plan, even Robert could see the reasoning and the sense that lay behind Cora's heartfelt plea.

With the burning of the country houses of the Anglo-Irish gentry and with the Strathfearns on their way to Rathnure to oversee the removal of valuable family heirlooms before closing down the house permanently, or so Robert was given to understand, until times improved, with what had happened to Skerries House, Tom's ancestral home - even if that was not how he had viewed it - and given what might well befall Rathnure, it was probably for the best if the Strathfearns did not delay their departure from these shores a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. This apart, given the exceptional circumstances of what had occurred yesterday afternoon, there was no gainsaying the fact that last night's dinner had to be a private, family affair.

And so it had proved to be.

* * *

"For goodness' sake, all of you, do let the poor boy eat something!" had admonished Cora at dinner when first Mary, then Edith and now Matthew had asked Tom to recount to them all something more of the time he had spent at sea on board the Irish Rose, the tramp steamer out of Galway, bound for the wilds of Nova Scotia to collect its cargo of timber and which Tom had first mentioned to them earlier, that afternoon over tea. Then, apart from the usual plates of sandwiches, with fillings of potted meat, of egg, of cucumber and of cheese, there had only been Dundee and Madeira cake on offer and for which, quite inexplicably, at least to Robert, Cora had apologised profusely to Tom.

Of course, not having been present when Sybil, Edith, Mary and Tom had partaken of afternoon tea in the elegant dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin and also having forgotten completely his Irish son-in-law's extreme partiality to chocolate cake, it was not until Cora had explained it to Robert later that evening that he had understood why any apology had been deemed necessary.

However, the subsequent appearance at the dinner table of Mrs. Patmore's famous trifle for dessert and to which Cora knew Tom was equally partial more than made up for the lack of chocolate cake at tea time. Having even foregone a delicious helping of lemon parfait, as the glass dish containing his portion of trifle was placed before him, Tom had grinned broadly from ear to ear and then drawing a very fond glance from Cora, to Violet's dismay and Mr. Carson's utter consternation, he had proceeded to scrape his dish clean.

"Carson?" enquired Cora a short while later.  
"Milady?""Please will you convey to Mrs. Patmore, Mr. Branson's particular appreciation of her trifle".

"Certainly, milady," replied the old butler and with an expressive raise of his eyebrows.

Thoroughly unabashed, Tom had merely grinned.

"Better?" asked Sybil with a giggle.

"Much" was Tom's laconic reply. During dinner he had more than done justice to each course set before him, but to the amusement of Sybil and her sisters Tom had especially enjoyed his helping of Mrs. Patmore's trifle.

"Didn't your ship's cook ever serve you trifle?" had asked Mary with a laugh.

Tom grinned again; licking his spoon clean, he shook his head.

"Never. We were fed but once a day and then only on hard tack! Mostly, we were kept chained to our oars". Tom ducked his head and chuckled.

"Chained? Oh, really Tom, you are absolutely incorrigible," sighed Edith with a laugh.

By way of explanation, it should be said that moments before, Tom, without any trace of embarrassment, had been accounting to one and all seated around the dining table how it was and more importantly why he had jumped off the train close to Downton Halt. He had managed to make quite an amusing tale out of it all, so much so that even Robert, as a Director of the North Eastern Railway Company, was prepared to overlook the not insignificant matter of Tom's singular avoidance of paying for his ticket.

"Well, all I will say upon the matter for now, is don't make a habit of it, Tom," had observed Robert affably enough. Even so, the earl of Grantham made a mental note to himself to see that Carson sent someone from the house down to the station the following day to settle the monies owing to the North Eastern Railway.

"I'd say it was very resourceful of Tom! Bravo, old chap!" exclaimed Matthew.

For her part, the Dowager Countess, however, was decidedly **not **amused.

"And you a solicitor; condoning someone breaking the law" observed Violet rather primly.

"Cousin Violet, here in England there is a defence to the commission of a criminal act if that occurs because someone has been forced to act in a way contrary to law by virtue of being placed under what is termed duress".

"Indeed?" Violet did not sound convinced but now warming to his decidedly uphill task of convincing the old lady that what he was saying was undeniably true, Matthew now launched into a full legal explanation.

"Oh, yes. I can assure you that there is extensive case law on the subject beginning with Astley and Reynolds in, as I recall, 1731, Skeate and Beale in 1840 and many others besides, the most recent being Maskell and Horner heard during the war. Were Tom to be prosecuted although I doubt very much that he will be, why, I myself would happily help defend him and indeed waive my fee".

"Goodness, a solicitor who does not charge one for his services. Well I never!" exclaimed Violet.

"Would you really represent me?" asked Tom.

"Of course!" With a wink, Matthew grinned conspiratorially down the table at Tom. "But I'm certain that it won't come that at all".

"But wasn't it rather dangerous?" observed Isobel with obvious and very evident concern. "Why, you might have broken your neck!"

"Trust you to be concerned about that," retorted Violet.

"I just wanted to get home to see Sybil and the children" explained Tom, completely unashamed and unabashed. "Given what she's been through these last six months, what I've been through, nothing on earth, no-one, was going to stop me from doing just that; certainly not some officious railway guard".

Tom's attempted justification of his actions continued to cut no ice with the Dowager Countess.

"And what if everyone did as you have done? Why, in no time at all, there would be complete anarchy!" At this, Tom and Sybil had exchanged wry glances.

"Anyway," said Tom, taking a sip of water and grinning happily across the dining table at Matthew's mother, "I was careful to make sure that the train had stopped, before I got off. That's what I did when I jumped off the local at Lansdowne Road in Dublin. You see, practice makes perfect, so I knew what I was doing …" Realising what he had just said, Tom now blushed; fell silent.

"So, by your own admission, an habitual offender!" observed the Dowager Countess triumphantly.

"Oh, really, granny! Anyway, when Tom jumped off that train in Dublin, he was only fourteen," explained Sybil trying to justify what Tom had done.

"Seventeen, actually," said Tom with another grin.

"And for the want of a nail the shoe was lost" lamented Violet.

"Oh, granny, all we're talking about is a couple of shillings, not the fall of the British Empire!" exclaimed Edith now openly entering the fray and rallying to Tom's defence whereupon all five of them, Tom, Matthew, Sybil, Mary and Edith now exchanged equally smiling looks.

For his part, when he had learned of it, Tom had been very much amused to hear of the plans to build in his memory an extension to the Cottage Hospital and to which he had been alerted during dinner, albeit initially only obliquely, by none other than the Dowager Countess herself.

"So, will you now be seeking other employment?" had asked Violet imperiously of Isobel.

"Other employment? What do you mean? Why should I need to seek _other employment_?"

"Well, I would have thought that was entirely obvious," said Violet dismissively.

"So entirely obvious that I can't see it?" asked Isobel.

"Well, it is to me".

"Well, bully for you. I take it that you're not referring to Borneo again?"

"No, but if you'd be at all interested in going out there, I would be only too happy to ask Cousin Montague if he could recommend a suitable shipping line" observed Violet quietly.

Matthew had looked completely bemused by what he was now hearing.

"Mother? What's this? Borneo? You're going out to Borneo? Whatever for? You said nothing to me about this. Any of it".

"That's because I have no intention whatsoever of going there. I never have. I don't understand why Cousin Violet believes I do. She's positively obsessed with the idea. And as for my needing to find other employment…"

"I'm not obsessed with anything. I was merely trying to find a suitable use for your many and varied talents".

"By packing me off to Borneo? Well, thank you very much!"

"A prophet is always without honour…" began Violet.

"And I don't see why I need to be seeking other employment either. I have all my work here".

"Yes, you do, don't you?" observed Violet pithily. "All those charities and committees of which you are… in charge; the Women's Institute, the Friends of St. Mary's, the Flower Guild, the local Education Committee, the Heath Board, the Cottage Hospital Memorial Ward Committee …Why, there seems to be positively no end to your, er… talents".

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Violet chose to disregard this last remark of Isobel's.

"Ah, well, there's none as blind as those that won't see," she replied tartly.

"There's nothing wrong with my eyesight" retorted Isobel through gritted teeth.

"Yet it seems you can't see beyond the end of your own nose".

"Cousin Violet, it appears that you and mother are perhaps at cross purposes". This from Matthew, ever the peacemaker and now desperately trying to pour oil on troubled waters. For the moment, all other conversation around the dining table had ceased while everyone else waited agog to see what all of this was about.

"I'm not at cross purposes with anyone" observed Violet loftily. "All I meant was that with darling Tom now fortuitously restored to us, what is to happen to the memorial ward being erected in his memory down at the Cottage Hospital?"

"Well why on earth didn't you say so!" exclaimed Isobel.

"I thought I had!" Violet shook her head in exasperation.

Thus it was that Tom, having first read briefly of the "Tom Branson Memorial Ward" in the copy of the Ripon Gazette in the Ship and Anchor in Tallow Lane in Liverpool, now learned the full details of what it was that was being planned.

"It really all is most inconvenient" remarked Violet drily.

"What, that I'm not dead?" asked Tom with a chuckle.

"Don't be tiresome, Alexei," retorted the Dowager Countess.

"**Alexei**?" Along with everyone else around the table, Tom and Sybil now exchanged surprised glances.

Oh dear, thought Violet, suddenly realising what it was she had just said and that now she would have to explain the reason for her faux pas to one and all. She sighed heavily. Things had been so much simpler when he had been just plain Branson.

Fortunately, entirely unwittingly, it was Tom who now came to her rescue.

"You were asking about my time on board the Irish Rose?" he asked, adroitly changing the subject. Edith nodded.

"Well, I'll have you know, Edith, chained to that oar, why, it was just like being back in service here at Downton!" Tom chuckled again; this time drawing another decidedly, disapproving glance from Mr. Carson who began to bristle.

Honestly! First Mr. Branson had been brazen enough to admit that he had contrived to evade paying for his railway ticket and now here he was suggesting that the domestic staff at Downton were treated no better than galley slaves.

"Do will still chain our staff, Carson?" enquired Mary setting down her glass of dessert wine.

Of course one and all knew she was speaking only in jest but from over by the sideboard the old butler glowered in Tom's direction and for a moment Mary feared that her misplaced attempt at humour had gone seriously awry. Then, something singular occurred. Entering into the spirit of the occasion, suddenly and wholly unexpectedly, Mr. Carson's eyes twinkled; the corners of his mouth twitched and the ghost of a smile settled across his august features.

"No, milady; as I am sure you are well aware, that particular practice was discontinued shortly before Mr. Branson's arrival. Although, on reflection, I am given to wondering whether by its discontinuance I myself may have been guilty of laxness. Be that as it may, milady, I suspect that its re-introduction would be a classic case of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted".

Glancing silently in the direction of Tom, ruefully the butler shook his head but kept his thoughts to himself.

It was true enough reflected Mr. Carson, as he continued with his duties here in the dining room, below stairs, with Mr. Branson presumed dead, life here at Downton had taken on a decidedly mournful and sombre air. While of course the old butler did not approve of maudlin behaviour or displays of emotion, it was understandable enough among that those members of the domestic staff who had known the erstwhile chauffeur should regret his passing.

Even Thomas, not known for his finer feelings towards anyone, had seemed profoundly shaken when the terrible details of what had happened at Allihies had become generally known.

"The poor bugger," had said Thomas softly, abruptly excusing himself from the table in the Servants' Hall before the midday meal had been concluded. When, several hours later, Mr. Carson had chanced to encounter Thomas in one of the rabbit warren of dimly lit stone flagged passages which existed below stairs, some of them pre-dating by many centuries the building of the present house, the old butler would have sworn that the valet had been crying. If so, Mr. Carson had forborne to say anything upon what he had seen, even to Mrs. Hughes.

Nevertheless, the death of Mr. Branson had also, surprisingly, been felt by those newer members of staff who had not known him and who had entered into service here at Downton more recently, including young Emily. Naturally, as was to be expected, one and all carried on with their normal duties about the house, Mr. Carson would have been rather surprised and indeed somewhat annoyed if this had not been the case. However, he would also have been the first to readily admit that the spark and zest seemed to have gone out of everyone, both below and above stairs.

Not that what happened upstairs among the family was strictly his concern. Even so, Mr. Carson was, perforce, unquestioningly loyal to those he served and could not avoid, on a daily basis, seeing that every one of the Crawley family was both much distressed and understandably shaken by what had come to pass regarding Lady Sybil's husband.

As he stood and quietly oversaw both Alfred and Jimmy begin clearing the polished dining table of the detritus of the dessert course, Mr. Carson continued to reflect quietly on what had now occurred.

There was no escaping the fact that it was indeed odd. While most of those in service here at Downton would have remembered young William Mason, apart from Daisy and Mrs. Patmore, these days, despite his resting place being hard by, down there in the village, in the churchyard of the local parish church, few made any reference to him. However, with Mr. Branson it was different. Things, reflected Mr. Carson, had been decidedly peaceful in the Irishman's prolonged absence but also, if the truth be told, rather dull.

* * *

Earlier that afternoon, below stairs, the news of Tom Branson's unexpected return to Downton spread like wildfire, so much so that Mr. Carson had considered it incumbent upon him to make some form of announcement to the effect of what had come to pass before supper began in the Servants' Hall.

So it was now, that all the domestic staff here present learned to their astonishment and delight that Mr. Branson was indeed both alive and well and had returned to the abbey earlier this afternoon; in circumstances of which Mr. Carson himself yet remained in ignorance. No doubt in the fullness of time his Lordship would see fit to explain matters further, but for the time being the earl of Grantham had requested that Mr. Branson be allowed time to readjust to life here at Downton Abbey.

One of those seated at the table in the Servants' Hall was sixteen year old Emily Parish who to her amazement now found out that the handsome Irishman whom she had encountered down in the village on the corner of Church Street and who had asked that she give a certain package to Lady Sybil, was none other than the dashing Mr. Branson; he who had once worked here as chauffeur to the Crawley family and who, breaking and flouting the rules of both convention and society at large, had dared first to fall in love with and then thereafter marry Lady Sybil, the youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham.

After supper was over, for the rest of the evening, at least until she had finished her chores and probably thereafter up in her cheerless garret of a bedroom right at the top of the house, Emily had gone about her duties in an almost trance like state; stopping now and then to gaze in seeming wonderment at her right hand.

To begin with Daisy thought she must have scalded her fingers; it had happened before. But this time, as far as Daisy could tell, Emily's right hand was completely unmarked. There was, as far as she could see, no redness, no swelling and the stupid girl had neither held her hand under the cold tap nor asked for a dollop of butter to ease any pain. So, for the time being at least, Daisy tried to ignore Emily's strange antics, took no notice of her and did as she usually did, paying the young girl no attention whatsoever except to order Emily about or else to tell her off and which usually amounted to more or less the same thing.

However, eventually, when Emily's decidedly odd behaviour had persisted, Daisy's curiosity was at last piqued and so, finally having quite enough of the scullery maid's nonsense, Daisy, as was her wont, had snapped at the young girl, asking what on earth the matter was, what it was that had got into her. To begin with, Emily said nothing; had merely smiled. Then she seemed to realise her conduct called for some kind of explanation, even to Daisy who was habitually horrid to her and whom Emily secretly both loathed and detested.

"He had the most bootiful blue eyes, he had. Held my hand he did," she said hugging herself tightly.

"Who did?"

"Him".

"Him?" demanded Daisy scornfully. "Who the hell's **him**?"

"Why, Mr. Branson of course" sighed Emily wistfully and gazing into space somewhere beyond the space between the top of the tall oak dresser and the ceiling.

"So handsome he was too".

At this, Daisy had heard quite enough. Shaking her head in disbelief, she had flung a damp tea towel at the younger girl and told her to dry. Her subsequent, exasperated response to the decidedly starry-eyed Emily does not bear repetition.

* * *

"Hard tack?" observed Matthew with a knowing wink.

"Which is what?" asked Sybil.

"It's a kind of biscuit…"

"Biscuit?" echoed Edith.

"You have to dunk it in coffee to soften it," explained Matthew.

"Dunk?" enquired the Dowager Countess loftily. "Pray, what is dunk?"

"Dip" offered Matthew.

"A legal term, is it?"

"No; a word in everyday, common usage," explained Isobel helpfully and with a beatific smile. "I'm rather surprised that you haven't heard of it".

Violet shot Isobel a viperous look and once again shook her head in exasperation. It was, she decided, high time she penned another letter to the bishop; this one offering the services of Cousin Isobel as a help meet to Reverend Travis, although quite what the natives in distant Borneo would make of either of them was open to question. Momentarily Violet closed her eyes and imagined Isobel having been trussed and placed in a large and bubbling cooking pot, red in the face and approaching the well done stage, surrounded by a dancing group of cannibals. Did cannibals dance? Violet assumed they did. Her son's words broke into her reverie.

"Are you all right, Mama?" asked Robert solicitously.

"Oh yes, perfectly" responded Violet. "I was just thinking of the curious things people eat…" She smiled and waved her hand. "Don't mind me". The Dowager Countess smiled contentedly.

Now completely and utterly mystified all Robert could do was nod, at the same time wondering if his mother was starting to go doolally, while across the table Tom was still continuing with his seeming interminable explanation about ships' biscuits.

"...in coffee or salt water. Usually it was salt water; then the weevils float to the top and you can skim them off before you eat your biscuit and drink your coffee or, er, salt water" added Tom; this time with a wink at Matthew and which did not go unnoticed by Robert who now permitted himself a surreptitious smile.

Years ago, a now long dead distant cousin, Captain James Horatio Crawley, had served in the Royal Navy, on board HMS Warrior and it was from Cousin James that, as a wide eyed eight year old boy, Robert had learned all about hard tack. So, he was not at all surprised in the slightest by what Tom then said next.

"We kept the weevils for later".

"Weevils? Why do I have the distinct feeling that I shall regret asking you this? Just exactly what are weevils?" asked Mary. She paused and waited.

"They're a kind of beetle," said Tom woodenly.

"Beetle? Hard tack? Fed once a day? Oh, really, Tom!" Mary lofted an imperious eyebrow, realising that once again she had been cozened and fallen prey to the unpredictable humour of both her brother-in-law and her husband.

Tom chuckled.

"Actually, the cook was a little Malay, called Ahmad, although everyone on board called him Cookie, from Rangoon, in Burma. Amongst other things, he served up an excellent beef hash and his curry was to die for!"

"So, I take it that you didn't much miss my cooking then?" asked Sybil provoking happy laughter all around.

* * *

In fact, the more he thought about it, Robert could recall no other dinner, at least in recent times which had proved so completely and thoroughly convivial.

So it was, that once again this morning, the earl of Grantham found himself musing how it was that from where they had all started in this that Tom Branson had become so very much a part of all their lives here at Downton; so much admired, so much respected and above all so beloved. While, although he would be loathe to admit it, that somewhere in the deepest recesses of Robert's mind there still yet lurked the faintest of misgivings over a pairing almost as unlikely as that which had come to pass between the Grand Duchess Olga the younger sister of the late tsar and the army officer whom she had chosen to marry, that Tom and Sybil were so well suited was obvious to one and all.

As his own mother-in-law Martha Levinson had once remarked, since the war, the world had moved on and while Robert also did not like change, especially in the established social order, who was he to question what had come to pass, especially when the marriage between Tom and Sybil was so clearly a very happy one.

So, perhaps there was some thing in what Cora had said last night when she had proposed a toast to the happy, reunited couple and had referred in passing to a match made in heaven, which before Tom's true antecedents were known had seemed to transcend all accepted notions of class and respectability; a marriage which had as his own mother had said was destined to be every since that very first time Sybil and Tom had met as children all those years ago in the lamp lit stable yard of Skerries House.

It was, reflected the earl of Grantham, decidedly and singularly odd.

For, from the very moment Tom Branson had stepped lithely across the threshold of the abbey, with Sybil walking happily and proudly by his side, young Danny riding high on his father's shoulders and with Saiorse cradled tightly in her mother's arms, the heavy pall of despondency and gloom which had settled over the great house upon the news of the Irishman's presumed death had vanished; so completely as if it might never have been. And with his unheralded return it seemed that light and laughter once more returned, certainly above stairs and from a conversation on the same matter which Robert had with Carson later that very day, below stairs as well.

However, unknown to Robert, there were some things which Tom had not told them; had kept from them. Even, from Sybil.

**Author's Note:**

Obviously, when it comes to matters legal, Matthew has a very good memory. All the legal cases he mentions are real and concern case law arising from the pleading by the defendants in each of the defence of duress.

HMS Warrior, on which Robert's distant cousin is said to have served, still exists. Now fully restored, she is berthed in a dry dock at Portsmouth Historic Dockyard.

Founded in London in 1905, by Frank Jarvis and Thomas Garner, Conway Stewart was an English company which specialised in the manufacture of fine quality fountain pens. Wound up in 1975, the company resumed production in the 1990s, only to go into receivership in 2014.

In 1916, Grand Duchess Olga (1882-1960) the younger sister of Tsar Nicholas II finally divorced her first husband Great Duke Peter (their marriage had never been consummated because of his homosexuality) and married her long time lover Colonel Nicholas Kulikovsky (1881-1958) by whom she had two sons. Together with both their little boys, Olga and her second husband escaped from revolutionary Russia in February 1920 and went to live in exile in Denmark with Olga's mother the Dowager Empress Marie. The Dowager Empress never approved of her daughter's marriage to a commoner.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Every Waking Minute

"Well, if you're really sure it's what you want," said Cora, unconsciously making use of the very same words that Sybil's father had spoken to her, most recently but a matter of weeks ago, regarding the then thorny question of what form Tom's memorial should take. Cora and her youngest daughter were in the countess of Grantham's lamp lit bedroom, with the former having been dressed for dinner and ready to go down and, following an urgent telephone call from Dr. Clarkson, with her youngest daughter in her nurse's uniform about to go out to help with an impending birth at the Cottage Hospital.

"I am Mama, quite sure".

"So, have you gone so far as to ask Tom about it?" While watching her daughter's reflection and thereby her reaction to her question in the polished glass of the mirror of her dressing table, Cora fiddled with a particularly recalcitrant ear ring. "There now!" she exclaimed.

Sybil chewed her lower lip.

"Not exactly, Mama, no".  
"Sybil?" Cora half turned on her chair and regarded her thoughtfully.  
"Well, to be absolutely truthful, no. To be honest, Mama, knowing how much he desperately loves the children I'm not at all sure how he'd take to the idea. I wondered if I would talk to Mary; ask her to have a word with Matthew when he returns from London. He could sound Tom out during one of their games of billiards".

Cora smiled, stood up, came to stand before Sybil and rested her hands lightly the younger woman's shoulders.

"Darling, while Tom was missing, from what you told me then, about the two of you, I think he would be delighted. And, I agree, it's what you need; both of you".

"Do you really think so?"  
"I'm sure of it". Cora nodded her head. "But then who am I, a middle aged woman, to be giving either of you advice in this kind of thing?"  
Sybil still looked mystified.

"I don't see…"

"Yes you do. Darling, given what you said to me, don't think me prurient, but since Tom came back, I've watched the two of you together. I've seen how you both look at each other. You told me in all honesty how you feel about him and it's obvious that Tom absolutely adores you. Why, you need only sit him down in the Drawing Room and then watch his reaction as you walk into the room to see the truth in that. It's there, ever time, in his eyes. As for Danny and Saiorse, yes of course he loves them. Who wouldn't? They're delightful children and he's a wonderful father to them as well. He always will be but I think, in some ways, they are just evidence of his affection for you and that will never change. So this… this is about you and Tom and no-one else. Understood?"

Sybil nodded her head.

"So… so you'll help me then?"  
"Yes," said Cora promptly. "Of course I will. Now, when do you want to make a start?"

"Why, the sooner the better! Oh, Mama! Thank you!" Sybil happily flung her arms about her mother's neck.

* * *

As might be expected, the business which had taken Robert and Matthew up to London and at short notice had been to do with the estate and for the time they were up in the capital, they stayed with Rosamund at her town house in Belgrave Square in Westminster.

On the afternoon of their second day in London, after luncheon, Robert had proposed that he take Matthew along to his club. Founded in 1793, in the aftermath of the execution of Louis XVI, by Robert's great grand father, the Bourbon Club lay just off St. James's Park. Like the slightly older Boodle's over on Pall Mall, among its members, Bourbon's counted members of the aristocracy, including four successive earls of Grantham, as well as Conservative politicians past and present such as Benjamin Disraeli, Robert Gascoyne-Cecil Third Marquess of Salisbury and Arthur Balfour now Lord President of the Council. However, most of Bourbon's membership eschewed the discussion of politics at all, choosing instead to avoid all matters controversial, preferring to simply avail themselves of the club's excellent amenities, in particular, its luxurious accommodation, its conviviality, its reputation for excellent cuisine and fine wines and above all its convenient location for gentlemen when up in town for matters of business or pleasure.

Seated in the club's smoking room, sitting before the fireplace in which a good fire always burned whatever the weather or the time of year, having run into the likes of Viscount Tremayne and Lord Hillmorton both of whom, like Archie Strathfearn, had also been with Robert up at Christchurch, the earl of Grantham was at this precise moment in an especially convivial mood.

Snug within the confines of their high backed winged leather armchairs Robert and Matthew were reflecting on the good fortune which had brought Tom back to them. Of course such chairs are exceedingly comfortable but they also do somewhat preclude one from seeing who else is seated close by. Shortly after Robert and Matthew's departure, while they were still in a cab on their way back to Rosamund's house in Belgrave Square, an urgent telephone call was put through from the Bourbon Club to the office of the Secretary of State for the Colonies: Winston Churchill.

* * *

Not that Sybil need have worried about Tom's reaction to what she had in mind, for when it came, it was very much as Mama had predicted.

That same week, late one afternoon, unwittingly Tom gave Sybil the opening she needed to broach the subject when he came down to meet her at the Cottage Hospital after Sybil's shift had ended. Having learned about the memorial ward which was to be built to honour his memory during dinner on that first night back at Downton, this afternoon was the very first time Tom had the opportunity to see how the work was progressing and with which, having now viewed it, he pronounced himself well satisfied observing that it was probably the first time anyone had been able to view something being built in their own memory. As for the name the new extension to the Cottage Hospital was now to bear that was to be hurriedly reconsidered at a meeting of the Memorial Ward Committee, convened for later this same afternoon.

Quite unexpectedly, on their way out of the hospital, Sybil and Tom ran into a clearly out of breath and somewhat flustered Cousin Isobel with whom they now happily exchanged both greetings and a few, brief words. Despite her best efforts, the meeting of the Friends of St. Mary's had dreadfully over run, owing to the garrulousness of the Honourable Mrs. Veronica Westwood, a particular friend of the Dowager Countess, who this morning had proved especially contrary not to say downright argumentative.

"This morning, whatever I proposed, she objected to, so much so that I began to wonder if your grandmother had put her up to it!" laughed Isobel and not, thought Sybil, entirely in jest. Isobel was, she now explained, on her way to chair the meeting of the Memorial Ward Committee and which in turn drew a chuckle of laughter from Tom. Then, having said their goodbyes and watched the retreating form of Cousin Isobel as she bustled self-importantly off into the building behind them, mindful of what granny had said a couple of evenings earlier, exchanging amused glances, arm in arm, Sybil and Tom set off back up through the village.

Here, since the departure of the fair a day or so ago, things had returned to more or less their usual level of soporific somnambulism, so much so that they wandered along the narrow streets of Downton all but unobserved, with no-one to see them pass except a couple of grizzled locals sitting on a bench in the warm sunshine outside the Grantham Arms.

From the far end of Station Road a whistle sounded and, late for the afternoon train, a pony and trap laden with full milk churns, rattled past them in a cloud of dust. Passing by the village school the playground was deserted but from within the red brick building they could hear the voices of the children repeating aloud their times tables. A solitary motor puttered by and for a moment drew Tom's gaze until at the crossroads it turned left, took the road for Ripon and disappeared out of sight. He grinned at Sybil.

"Old habits die hard!" he laughed and gave her one of his endearing lop-sided grins.

A little further on along the High Street, they passed the Post Office from where, the morning of the day after Tom's homecoming, an urgent telegram had been despatched to Ma in distant Clontarf giving her the joyful news of his return. For her part, although for the time being she had kept her thoughts on the subject to herself, said nothing to Tom, Sybil thought the telegram was probably unnecessary. After all, given what Ma had told her in the past, for Ma, Tom's telegram would merely prove to be written confirmation of something she herself already knew to be the case.

Tom had also written a letter to Mr. Harrington, his editor at the Irish Independent in Dublin, in which Tom had explained at some length what had befallen him in the aftermath of the burning of Cork. He now anxiously awaited a reply as to whether or not he would be able to resume his old job with the newspaper. Ma's response had been prompt and while clearly delighted she had written and told Tom to remind Sybil of what she had told her: as yet, perhaps ominously, there had been, so far, no reply from Mr. Harrington.

On their way, they stopped at the local bakery to beg some stale bread with which to feed the ducks on the pond; Sybil having explained to Tom that she had taken to bringing Danny down here to do the same; something which, as a child, she had always wanted to do but never been allowed. Much like a horde of ravening locusts had devoured crops in far distant Mesopotamia and of which Edith had spoken of last night at dinner, now, in a flurry of flapping wings, splashing noisily, quacking loudly, the ducks descended on the scattered pieces of bread consuming all in an instant,

With the ducks duly fed, stillness descended once more upon the village pond and, hand in hand, in the heat of the summer's afternoon, beneath a cloudless sky, the air sweet with the scent of new mown grass, like a pair of village lovers, Tom and Sybil wandered slowly home, wending their way across the rich fields of the estate and towards the distant house.

On the footpath, close to a stile, they paused for a moment and looked about them. In every direction, as far as the eye could see, the hedges were a mass of may and elder fringed with billowing cow parsley; the crops were already ripening and if this spell of warm weather held, there was every likelihood that this year, the harvest here at Downton would begin early.

Hereabouts, the stillness of the summer's afternoon was broken only by the occasional clatter of stone, the gentle swish of scythes and, from time to time too, the shouts of men. Over in the next field, taking an obvious pride in their work, selecting the stones they were using with great and infinite care, a couple of men were busily engaged in repairing one of the many drystone walls that criss crossed the estate hereabouts; just below Blackberry Copse, with long regular strides and with practised skill, cutting the long grass with consummate ease, others were scything a hay meadow. The men could be seen moving slowly downwards in a broad arc towards the river; a scene which, said Tom, had in all probability had changed very little in the four centuries since the Crawleys had become lords of Downton manor.

Of a much lesser time span, it was, he reflected, not yet three years since the guns on the Western Front had at last fallen silent but over in Ireland, despite rumours of a peace deal being brokered between the British Government and the IRA, the killing and the violence continued unabated.

As Sybil knew well enough, he had always opposed violence of any kind and from any quarter. Now, with what he had been through and with a young son of his own to nurture and protect, Tom was even more determined that there should never be another war.

From a lengthy discussion Matthew and he had enjoyed a couple of nights ago, given what Matthew himself had experienced and seen on the Western Front, Tom knew that his friend and brother-in-law felt the same as he did; that, despite the increasing calls on his time made by the estate, Matthew was seeking a way in which he could become involved in the work of the League of Nations; although, as yet he had said nothing to Mary on the subject.

Maybe it was with this in mind or else perhaps it was the corn field they were now crossing, a blaze of gold flecked with scarlet poppies where high above them a lark soared on the wing, that put Tom in mind of the words of Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae:

_"In Flanders fields the poppies blow_  
_Between the crosses, row on row,_  
_That mark our place; and in the sky_  
_The larks, still bravely singing, fly"_

Tom now quoted the verse to Sybil from memory, although, since its publication in Punch and with the end of the war, it was becoming very widely known. Then, taking her hands in his own he gazed at Sybil thoughtfully for a moment, drew her forward into his arms where she rested her head against his chest while he nuzzled her hair breathing in its scent fragrant with meadowsweet.

"Darlin', despite all we've been through recently, you and I, we've been incredibly lucky, for sure".  
"You mean that we met when we did; when lads like poor William and so many others never made it through the war".

"I suppose when you look at it that way, then yes. But that wasn't quite what I meant". He paused. Sybil looked up at him and smiled.

"What did you mean then?"

"That we met, yes. But also for having been given the chance to live our lives the way we want to live them".

* * *

A short while later, found them sitting happily together on a mossy, grassy, fern fringed bank close to the ford where the Downton brook dawdled across the lane. Often a raging torrent in winter but at this time of the year little more than a trickle of water, the stream now babbled and lazed its way across the dusty byroad that led down from the village towards the corn mill in the valley below. From somewhere near at hand, hidden in the reeds, there came the warble of a moor hen.

Here, beneath the leafy coolness of a grove of dwarf oaks, where the deep purple flowers of a dark mass of rhododendrons blazed bright against their glossy green foliage, the air was made drowsy with honeysuckle and sweet briar. Slipping his arms about her waist, Tom drew Sybil into a fond embrace and for an instant, time seemed to stand still. Cupping her face gently with his hands, he began to kiss her and as his kiss lengthened, so their shared physical need of each other deepened and it was all but as if the heartbreak of the last six months had never been; almost that is, but not quite.

True, their desire for each other remained undiminished and they were, perhaps, closer than they had ever been; their feelings towards each other heightened by their enforced and unlooked for separation. Even so, despite having resumed their love making on that very first afternoon following Tom's return, something was changed, perhaps understandably so.

For, notwithstanding all that he had told Sybil, both then and in the days and nights which followed, about his arrest, his imprisonment, the brutality he had endured, of the horror of what had befallen him and the others at Allihies, of his painfully slow recovery from his injuries, of the touching kindness of Mrs. O'Sullivan, of his loss of memory and its sudden return on seeing the photograph of her and the children in the newspaper in the Ship and Anchor public house, in her heart, Sybil knew that there was still something Tom had not vouchsafed to her. He would go so far in all of this and then no further.

Of course it was by no means a one-sided conversation. In turn, Sybil had told Tom about what had befallen her and Danny after he disappeared, of her increasingly desperate attempts to find out what had become of him, of Ma's insistence that despite everything pointing to the contrary, that he would indeed come back to her.

"So, you see, when you asked me, if I ever doubted you and I said no, I was being entirely truthful!" They had just made love and she was lying contentedly enfolded in his arms. He smiled.

"You know, Ma always did believe in all that chiall séú, second sight, sixth sense nonsense; not that I ever had much time for it. In fact, I rather used to make fun of it! Now it seems she was right after all and it looks like I'll have to be apologising to her for sure!"

Sybil told Tom too of what had transpired at the Imperial Hotel in Cork, of the deaths of both Stathum and Maeve; of the burning of Skerries House. He expressed no regret whatsoever in the matter of Stathum and, on the face of it, he seemed entirely unmoved by what had happened either to his cousin or to his family's ancestral home other than to repeat what he had once said long ago; he wanted nothing which had belonged to his uncle. After Sybil had told him too what she had made the Volunteers save and carry from the house before it was set on fire, his response, when it came,had been succinct and to the point.

"So then, nothing at all left to sell! Well then, Messrs. Beamish and Crosbie have lost their percentage!"

"Beamish and Crosbie?"

"The land agents which Fitzmaurice appointed, to oversee the sale of Skerries? You remember him, surely?"

"Ah, now you mention it, yes, yes I do". Sybil nodded her head. For a moment there formed in her mind the image of Mr. Fitzmaurice, an unprepossessing, unpleasant, balding, portly little man with piercing eyes dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a gold watch and chain; who had been particularly unpleasant about little Danny.

* * *

Then again, sometimes it was as if nothing was altered. Sybil thought back to that first afternoon after Tom's return here to Downton. With Cora having said that the two of them must want some time to be alone together, with the two children having been given into the charge of Nanny Bridges when the two of them were on their own at last in Sybil's old bedroom, their immediate all-consuming desire for each other had known no bounds.

Very early on in their marriage, each had found they could sense when the other had need of them by perhaps a simple touch or even just a glance. And so it had been now, when, with Sybil occupied in taking some of his clothes from out of the trunk at the end of the bed, Tom had been about to take a bath and have a much needed shave.

Then, through the open doorway, seeing her picking up one of his shirts and holding it to her face, breathing in his scent, mouthing an obvious, silent, heartfelt prayer, instead, barefoot and stripped to the waist, suddenly, Tom had come from the bathroom. With a laugh, he had lifted in his strong arms and without further ado, smothering her face in kisses, had carried her towards the waiting bed. Outside the storm had broken with a vengeance. It was raining heavily; cracks of thunder and forks of lightning lit up the sky with flashes of intense white light causing Sybil to bury herself against Tom while he held her close and calmed her fears with the lilting, soothing timbre of his voice. On that occasion, the noise of the storm had at least helped in part to mask the passion of their lovemaking.

That first night, after dinner, when they had retired, upstairs, in Sybil's old bedroom, with, at Mama's insistence, Danny and Saiorse sleeping in the night nursery once again under the watchful eye of Nanny Bridges, they found themselves alone again, having readied themselves for bed, during which time Sybil had chafed Tom mercilessly about being an exiled Russian prince, she had intended to try and exercise some degree of restraint but as soon as Tom had begun to touch her in places and in ways that he knew gave her the greatest pleasure, her desire for him became overwhelming.

Of course, part of that was Sybil's own fault, insofar as she had shown Tom the diary she herself had been keeping since his disappearance. The entries in it were many and manifold and covered all manner of things; her innermost thoughts and feelings, about their children, about her family, about Downton, about Ireland but it was those about himself, about her feelings for him that took Tom's breath away; that he could inspire such a depth of passion was awe-inspiring.

"_My very own darling, lying here on my own at night in this bed, I feel so utterly bereft without you. I know I should be so grateful for the time we have enjoyed together and which I know we will enjoy again, even if the rest of the family think me completely insane for imagining that to be the case! Darling Tom, how much I love being married to you, being your wife. I think we have enjoyed a far deeper relationship than most married couples but when you take me in your arms again, I will hold nothing back..."_

Nor did she.

* * *

"Your shot, old chap," said Matthew. Tom nodded, leant over the table and squinted along the length of his cue before hitting the cue ball squarely. They were in the billiards room after dinner on the second night after Tom's return.

"I'll never forget… what you did, Matthew; in coming over to Ireland, in trying to help find me, all those letters, even to that bloody bastard Churchill, to Lloyd George, all those enquiries you made but most importantly of all in taking care of Sybil and Danny while I was… away. Thank you, Matthew, thank you, from the bottom of my heart".

Tom's voice cracked with emotion. His feelings for Matthew were both heartfelt and sincere; as he had told Sybil, Tom looked on Matthew as the brother he had so much wanted as a child but had never had. Knew from what Mary had told Sybil and she in turn had told him, that the feeling was very much reciprocated. Even so, with his middle class and public school upbringing, Matthew was clearly embarrassed

"Oh, that!" He shrugged his shoulders dismissively; looked down at the floor. "It was nothing… I mean anyone would have done what I…" he began, watching despondently, as the red ball Tom had selected now dawdled its way slowly across the baize and dropped neatly into the corner pocket.

"My point I think!" He straightened up.

"Well, your game is as good as ever!"

Tom chuckled and then he became serious.

"And as for what you did, Matthew, it was a great deal more than that for sure. So let's be having none of your English reserve".

He walked round purposefully around the table to stand directly in front of the other man. Tom held out his right hand and placed his left firmly on Matthew's shoulder. Matthew found himself doing likewise; placing his left hand on Tom's shoulder and grasping his brother-in-law's outstretched hand. As their eyes met, for a long moment they stood facing one another; the Irish republican journalist and the middle class solicitor from Manchester; firmly, they shook hands.

"You're a very fine man, Matthew and while I'm very proud to have you as my brother-in-law, most of all I'm proud to call you my best friend. A friendship which he knew would endure both through life's vicissitudes and for all time. "Matthew, if ever there's anything I can do for you…" Tom's voice trailed off.

This was the opening Matthew had needed.

* * *

He had wondered how he might best broach the subject of what was troubling him that, God willing, with Mary soon to become a mother, just how inadequate he felt about becoming a father. Earlier that evening before dinner, while awaiting Mary to finish dressing, unobserved by his brother-in-law, Matthew had stood in the doorway to the night nursery watching spellbound as Tom, with little Saiorse held fast in his arms, quite unselfconsciously, sat cross-legged on the floor and softly crooned to her the lilting words an Irish lullaby.

From where he was standing, Matthew could see that the little girl was mesmerised, her eyes fixed intently on her father's face, the fingers of one tiny hand tightly grasping Tom's thumb, while in front of him young Danny played happily and contentedly with a set of wooden bricks. To Matthew, Tom seemed to be remarkably good at this business of being a father; appeared have everything well in hand. Would he ever be the same he wondered? Matthew thought it unlikely; considered that he would, in all probability, end up making a complete mess of the whole business. And yet, despite his own intense misgivings, a part of him could not wait to become a father.

"Oh, there you are! Sybil said you might be up here!" exclaimed Mary, none too pleased in having to have come upstairs in search of her errant husband. Matthew smiled and made his way along the passage towards where she was standing at the head of the main staircase.

"Darling, you look absolutely divine!"

"And I thought you and that unspeakable wretch Tom thought I resembled… what was it you both said? Oh, yes; a penguin".

Matthew smiled ruefully.

"Mea culpa! Anyway, that was when you were in black and white!"

"And now?" Mary shot Matthew a sideways glance. With a little help from Anna, this evening and probably for the last time before the occurrence of what she insisted on calling "The Event", Mary had managed to struggle into one of her elegant evening gowns; a beautiful scarlet creation that Matthew had bought for her in Paris while they were on honeymoon.

"A Bird of Paradise," laughed Matthew.

"Flatterer! You've been talking to Tom!" Mary prodded her handsome husband affectionately in the ribs.

"It's not flattery. Darling, you do look beautiful".

"Less of the Irish... blarney, if you please, Mr. Crawley! I'll have you know that even Sybil doesn't fall for darling Tom's nonsense; at least, not all of the time!"

Nonetheless delighted by the compliment her husband had paid to her, Mary now turned her head towards Matthew and broke into a radiant smile.

"Anyway, tell me, what on earth were you doing, standing there, outside the night nursery?" she asked as now, arm in arm, they walked slowly down the main staircase of the abbey.

"Learning," offered Matthew laconically.

"Learning? Learning what?" asked Mary mystified.

"Never you mind!" laughed Matthew.

* * *

"Well, there just might be…" began Matthew. Then he stopped; attended instead to concentrating on chalking the tip of his cue.

Tom cocked an eye at his friend.

"Oh? And?"

"This… er… whole thing, Tom". Matthew now took another sip of his brandy and swallowed hard.  
"What whole thing?" Tom smiled, looked enquiringly at his best friend.  
"You know".

"Er, no, I don't; not if you don't tell me".

"… of… of being a father".

So, that was it. Tom smiled.

"What is it you want to know for sure?" he drawled affably.

* * *

Things on that grassy bank might have progressed still further had not just at that moment a horse drawn wagon, heavily laden with sacks of freshly ground flour from the mill, rumbled passed and drawing amused glances from the driver and the young lad seated beside him, reluctantly, almost coyly, both blushing, Tom and Sybil broke apart.

"Jaysus! Why is it that on a twenty thousand acre estate that stretches as far as the eye can see, let alone in a house with God knows how many rooms, we can never find somewhere to be truly alone!" Tom ran his fingers through his hair.

Sybil giggled, remembering how the other morning Tom had been mortified when, with the two of them still in bed, with him gently nudging Sybil's legs apart, his fingers gently probing, blissfully unaware of what she had interrupted, Anna had more or less breezed into their bedroom and had begun to draw back the curtains.

"Darlin', I know that your mother and sisters, and Matthew too, all mean well for sure; that they're only trying to be kind. And, while I never thought I'd say it, I'm very grateful to your father too for giving us a roof over our heads here at Downton at least while I wait to find out if there's still a position for me at the Indy, before we return to Dublin with the children, what **we **really need is somewhere away from everyone; where we can be alone, really alone, just the two of us. Even if it's only for a few days. I suppose, now that we have the children, that makes me sound very selfish, for wanting you all to myself. What I mean is..." Tom stopped what he was saying, fell silent; sat with his eyes down cast, glumly awaiting her response. It was not often that he could make Sybil blush but she did so now.

"Do you really mean it?"

"Would I say so, if I didn't?" he asked softly. Tom turned his head towards her again and smiled one of his endearing lop-sided grins.

"Knowing you as I do? No; of course not. And I think I can understand why. So, just suppose… if there was such a place? What then?" she asked archly.

"Why I'd take you there this very instant!" He grinned at her again.

"Would you now?"  
"Darlin', to be sure!"

"Well, then…"

"Oh well, it was just a thought," Tom said with a grin and a playful but heartfelt sigh as they watched the wagon rumble off up the lane.

"Only a thought? Really? Then come with me, Mr. Branson". Taking a firm hold of Tom's left hand, Sybil now led him forward slowly along a path that led towards a distant stile.

"Sybil, darlin', where on earth are we going?" Tom's brows knit in puzzlement as she led him off in a completely different direction from the one they had been taking. ""Love, in case you've forgotten, the house is that way, over there". Tom pointed through the trees towards to where, in the distance, the massive bulk of the abbey shimmered in the heat haze of the summer's afternoon.

"Yes, I know," she said softly. "But that's not where we're going".

"So just where **are** we going?"

"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies," laughed Sybil kissing him lightly on the cheek. "You'll find out soon enough!"

And with that, Tom found he had to be content.

* * *

"Does anyone else know about this? Any of it? You did all of this? For me?" Tom asked of her in astonishment. His voice cracked, betraying the emotion he felt, that Sybil would have done this for him; for the both of them. And now, as Tom turned to face her, she saw the tears starting in his eyes.

"Only Mama. In fact, it was all quite a clandestine operation but with Papa and Matthew presently away up in London, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. So, on the pretext that this place was soon to be let, Mama had old Ted Daniels send a couple of men over from off the estate to carry out any repairs that were found to be necessary. Mrs. Hughes was asked to have two of the girls come in and clean and Mama also had her look out some old things from the house which might suit; pots and pans, crockery, bedding and so forth. If Mrs. Hughes ever suspected what Mama was up to, so far she hasn't said, at least not to me. I'm not quite sure what excuse Mama made to Mrs. Patmore about the provision of the hamper. I think she said something about telling her it was for one of Cousin Isobel's charities, one of her good causes". Sybil laughed and nodded towards the heavy wicker basket which stood on top of the kitchen table.

"Well, darlin', I don't mind us being thought of as a good cause! Do you?" Tom gave a delighted chuckle.

"No, not at all!" Sybil smiled and watched Tom closely as he continued to look about him.

The low ceilinged kitchen of the old chauffeur's cottage been scrubbed clean; beneath their feet the quarries gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight and beside the small range, which had been newly black leaded, there stood a large earthenware jar full of pale coloured lupins and pink and white margeurites. The walls had been freshly whitewashed and the crockery of which Sybil had spoken was all in place and now lined the shelves of the small pitch pine dresser.

"Don't tell me you never dreamed of this?"

"I might have," said Tom softly. His thatch of hair had fallen forward over his forehead. Shyly, he glanced sideways at her. "Well, all right. Yes, I did, many times; the thought of us being together, here in this cottage, alone, with you in my arms. Oh, God, Sybil, darlin', you have no idea how much I..."

"Well then, Mr. Branson, don't you think that it's…"

She got no further with what she was saying as a moment later and Tom had closed the short distance that remained between them.

"Come, see, there's more," Sybil said softly and drew him forward again, this time up the narrow staircase to where yet another surprise awaited Tom. Here, up under the eaves, in what, when he was in service here at Downton had once had been his very own bedroom there now stood an old cast iron double bed. On either side was a night stand and on top of each there was a brass candlestick. When he had lived here as chauffeur to the Crawleys, Tom had to make do with bare boards on the floor of his bedroom; now, however, these were all but hidden, beneath a pair of bright rag rugs, while the bed itself, which took up most of the small room, was fully made up and covered with a blue counterpane. Atop the pillows and neatly folded lay one of Sybil's white cambric nightgowns and beside it his vest and a pair of striped pyjama bottoms.

"So then, what about the children?" Tom asked of her moments later sitting on the edge of the bed, his arm about Sybil's shoulders as she sat beside him. Because it was so warm, the bedroom window stood open and through it from outside there drifted the sounds of children at play, the clang of a hammer in the smithy across the yard and a traction engine clattered noisily along the lane behind the cottage. He stood up and closed the window.

"I thought you said…"  
"Yes, I did but…"  
"Darling, Nanny Bridges will look after the both of them. She's more than perfectly capable and, after all, it's only for a few days. Anyway Danny's been used to me not being there when I've been working down at the Cottage Hospital".

"But what if you're needed there? And then what about Saiorse?"

"Only if there is an emergency. This afternoon, shortly before you arrived, barring the outbreak of an epidemic, Dr. Clarkson told me he could manage perfectly well with just Sister Benson. And as for Saiorse, apart from feeding her, if she needs me then Nanny Bridges will send a message down to us here at the cottage".

"And if we miss them too much, then we can always go back up to the house…" offered Tom hesitantly.  
"Not bring them down here?" asked Sybil.

"No. Don't ask me to explain why but somehow, at least for the time we're here, I think we should keep this place for ourselves". He grinned. At that Sybil smiled broadly; perceptive as always, Mama had been right after all.

"If that's what you want, but would you do something for me in return?" she asked huskily. Out of the corner of one eye, Tom saw her blush and it melted his heart.

"Darlin', to be sure. What?"

"Make love to me, Tom".

He didn't need to be asked twice but then, just as Tom moved towards her across the room, from downstairs there came a thunderous knocking on the front door of the cottage. They both sighed with resignation and with Tom leading the way, descended the stairs and opened the door; to be confronted by a group of police officers standing in the yard. At the sight of their uniforms, Tom stiffened warily.

"Are you Tom Branson?" asked the sergeant.  
"Yes". Tom nodded his head in affirmation.

"I have a warrant for your arrest; on charges of treason and espionage".

**Author's Note:**

Boodle's Club on Pall Mall still exists.

Written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae (1872-1918) "In Flanders Fields" was the poem which inspired the adoption of the poppy as the Flower of Remembrance for those who had been killed in the Great War. At this time, June 1921, it had not yet been adopted by the Royal British Legion but would be later in this same year.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Return To The Past

**Dartmoor, south-west England, July 1921.**

_In extent some two hundred and fifty square miles of bleak, open moorland, a grim and foreboding wilderness; wet for much of the year and often lost from sight midst eerie, swirling banks of damp, grey mist. A wild, empty, primeval landscape of brooding granite tors and desolate peat bogs some of which such as Fox Tor Mires reputed to be bottomless, the grave of many an unwary traveller; sprinkled with a cluster of prehistoric remains of stone circles, menhirs and burial chambers, a scattering of isolated farms and a clutch of small villages and presiding over all, the grim bulk of the prison at Princetown._

_Seated at his spartan desk in his bleak cell, with a blanket around his hunched shoulders, for the umpteenth time gazing mournfully out through the barred window of his cell at "that little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky", having blown again on his fingertips to try and warm them, Tom picked up his pen to write another letter to his wife in distant Yorkshire._

_Dartmoor Prison,_

_Princetown,_

_Devon_

_My dearest dear,_

_Words cannot express how much I miss you. I..._

_Heavy footsteps sounded in the passage outside his cell door. With sweat beading his brow, shivering, Tom half turned, praying that they would pass on by and continue along the stone-flagged passage. His prayer remained unanswered as but moments later, the footsteps came to a stop; a key grated and then turned in the lock and the door to his cell swung open..._

"Tom, darling, wake up, please..."

* * *

**County Cork, Irish Free State, July 1924**.

The green Cubitt 16/20 Tourer positively purred along the road. With Sybil seated in the rear of the motor and with Tom in the driver's seat sporting both goggles and leather gauntlets, it was, she thought, just like a return to old times; a warm summer's day, sitting here on the back seat and being driven sedately along in the Renault on the way to Ripon. Then suddenly, out of the blue and quite unexpectedly, the motor lurched, violently.

Old times? Sedately? Ripon? Well, actually, no. Not at all. Not now. Not with two young children seated either side of her. Glancing first at Danny and then at little Saiorse, Sybil smiled and shook her head in amusement. The country road they were driving along now led not north to Ripon, but south from Cork; towards Kinsale and to what, if anything, three years after it was set alight and burnt out by the IRA, still remained of Skerries House.

Following his return to the Irish Independent and now known and respected as one of its most senior journalists, with a week's holiday owing to him, although Tom had said he was not at all sure how he felt about the idea, at Sybil's suggestion, a few days ago, having packed their suitcases, they had taken the train south to Cork from Dublin's Kingsbridge Station, much as they had done back in the summer of 1920.

However, this time, with considerably more money than before, instead of staying at O'Keefe's, the modest establishment belonging to the garrulous, well-meaning widow of the same name, they were to stay at the red brick Metropole Hotel on Mac Curtain Street.

Tom had rented the Tourer from a garage which lay just off the Lower Glanmire Road, the owner of whom, a Mr. Kelly, he knew well from the time he had spent in Cork four years earlier. A couple of months ago, from a letter Mr. Kelly had written to Tom at the Independent, it transpired that recently, in circumstances which were not entirely clear, Kelly had come into possession of Tom's old army motorcycle and which now, having learned of Tom's whereabouts, wanted to restore to its rightful owner. Hearing that Tom proposed travelling down to Cork, the two men had agreed to meet so as to make the necessary arrangements for the carriage of the motorcycle by the Great Southern and Western Railway back up to Dublin.

Of course Tom was delighted; he had not laid eyes on his beloved motorbike since hiding it beneath a tarpaulin down an alleyway on the night of the burning of Cork; in fact, he had never expected ever to see it again. Oddly enough, although she herself had proposed this trip south in an effort to finally lay the ghosts of the past, Sybil was not so sure. She could still vividly remember that last morning at Skerries when Tom had set off for Cork on his motorcycle and then had failed to return. So it was that when Tom went to meet Mr. Kelly to see his motorbike, as well as to enquire about the hiring of a motor for a few days and for which Mr. Kelly had offered him a good price, this time, taking no chances whatsoever, Sybil insisted that she and the children accompany him.

In the aftermath of independence, at least on the surface, the Bransons found Cork to be remarkably unchanged by the departure of the British. True, several of the street names had been altered although this in itself was not unusual. Street names had been changed before both here and elsewhere, in the Free State and across the Irish Sea in England and undoubtedly they would be so again in the future.

However, some of the more recent changes reflected the creation of the Free State: for example what had previously been King Street on which their hotel was situated was now Mac Curtain Street in memory of the former Lord Mayor shot dead in March 1920 in front of both his wife and son. While the reconstruction of the City Hall over on Albert Quay had not yet begun, with, after a lengthy battle, compensation having been paid to their owners, the rebuilding of the burned and looted shops on Patrick Street such as Roches Stores, Alexander Grant, Cash's and many others continued apace and here, as elsewhere in the Free State, while they all still bore the royal cipher, for despite independence, George V was still Head of State, the post boxes in Cork, were now no longer painted red but green.

* * *

"Feckin hell!" yelled Tom loudly as he now slewed the vehicle forcefully to the left to avoid yet another pothole.

"Tom! Language, please!" reprimanded Sybil loudly from the rear of the motor.

"Sorry!" Tom sang out cheerfully and managing at the same time to sound thoroughly uncontrite.

Beside his mother young Danny giggled and bounced enthusiastically up and down on the leather seat.

"Go on Da! Go faster, Da! Da, go faster!" implored the little boy excitedly and at the same time clapping his hands enthusiastically.

"Daniel Robert Branson! Will you please sit still!" admonished his mother. She ruffled his hair and shook her head. If darling Mary mistakenly believed that children became easier as they grew older, then she was in for the rudest of awakenings. Not, of course, that Mary was as involved in the bringing up of young Robert as Sybil had been with her and Tom's two. Little Robert, named for his grandfather the earl of Grantham, Matthew and Mary's young son, was now aged all of three years.

"_Darling, that's what Nannies are for,"_ had explained Mary wearily once more to Sybil when for the umpteenth time her youngest sister had suggested yet again that she ought to become more involved with the upbringing of her offspring. Sybil sighed; it was clear that some things would never change.

Danny 's excitement seemed to be highly contagious as now his Da also chuckled delightedly. Just like influenza, thought Sybil, doing her very best to keep a straight face. Then, just as unashamedly, her young son giggled again; gave his mother another cheeky grin. Honestly, two peas in a pod! Although Danny's hair, fair when he was born and for a year or so thereafter was now beginning to darken, the little boy was so like his father, not only in his looks but in his interests; anything mechanical absolutely fascinated Danny and he did love it so when his father was driving and then hit the accelerator. However, where they lived now, in Blackrock, there was, thankfully, very little opportunity of that; especially if Sybil was riding in the family motor as well, which, almost invariably, was the case.

* * *

Blackrock lay on the south side of Dublin and it was here, after his release from prison and their return to Ireland, that Tom and Sybil had bought their first house, a modest, stucco plastered, three storey Victorian villa in Idrone Terrace, where they had created a blissfully happy home, within both sight and sound of the sea and but a short walk from the railway station enabling Tom to be at his desk in his office on Talbot Street in Dublin in little over half an hour.

However, despite his Ma's ever watchful eyes, fortunately, at least for little Danny, going out for a jaunt in the motor with his "Uncle" Ruari behind the steering wheel often proved just as much fun as going out for a run with Da. Now aged nineteen Ruari, Ciaran and Aislin's eldest son, the shy, good looking, dark-haired boy whom Sybil had taught to dance all those years ago in his father's barn at Christmas 1919, was now an apprentice engineer working for the Great Southern and Western Railway Company at its Inchicore works in Dublin. More to the point, just like Da, when he got behind the wheel of a motor, Uncle Ruari also liked to drive fast.

Some time ago, through the good offices of his Uncle Tom, Ruari had acquired a wreck of a Wolseley which, following the death of its elderly owner way back in 1914, had been left to moulder and decay in an outbuilding in Raheny.

With his uncle's help and many hours of loving work of his own, at long last, Ruari had now restored it to running order. Out at Ruari's father's farm on the Clontarf Castle Estate, seated on top of a long bench in the old barn, little Danny had dutifully played his own part in all of what had been required; had helped in repairing Uncle Ruari's old motor by, when being asked to do so, handing Da his tools and then just as carefully replacing them in Da's wooden toolbox when they were no longer needed.

So, now, with the motor repaired, young Danny knew that a summer Sunday trip out to the farm at Clontarf on the north side of Dublin Bay meant a chance of "going for a spin" in the Wolseley along with both Da and Uncle Ruari. Usually they went over Howth on the coast and, once there, sitting down by the harbour, young Danny was always treated to a glass of lemonade while Da and Ruari drank ginger beer. And, sometimes, in passing, while they were talking, they mentioned somebody called O'Brien, who apparently was dead and who, for some strange reason Danny could not fathom, always made both Da and Uncle Ruari laugh.

There was something else too which Danny did not understand too.

The Sunday afternoon trips out to Howth in Ruari's motor only ever happened if, beforehand, Da had dropped off Ma and little Saiorse, Danny's cry baby sister, at the house by the sea to pay a visit to Granny Branson; returning later to collect all of three of them and then run back up to the farm in time for tea and some of Aunt Aislin's delicious Barmbrack.

Now, although Da had never said anything to him about it being a secret, Danny knew instinctively that when, before tea, they went back to collect Granny Branson, Ma and Saiorse from the little house by the sea, he should say nothing to them at all about the trip out to Howth in Uncle Ruari's motor.

Danny chuckled.

He loved his Da so very much and his Uncle Ruari too; would have told you too, if of course he had known the word and more importantly what it actually meant, that he rather liked the idea of being part of a conspiracy.

* * *

However, if Ma had asked Danny directly about where they had been on Sunday afternoon, then, of course, he would have told her; not that she ever did. After all, Danny had been brought up to know that telling lies was wrong and he decidedly did not wish to go the way of Matilda "who told such Dreadful Lies, It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes" and who had ended up being burned to death.

A birthday present from his Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary, at the time, Sybil had thought Hilaire Belloc's "Cautionary Tales For Children" might frighten Danny. However, given the fact that he was undoubtedly his father's son and therefore possessed from birth of a sense of humour equally as unpredictable as that of both Tom and his Uncle Matthew, when read to him at bedtime, young Danny had found the fate of poor Matilda and her ten naughty companions to be absolutely hilarious.

Danny's favourite tale and indeed that of Tom too was the one about George, "Who played with a Dangerous Toy, and suffered a Catastrophe of considerable Dimensions". Following the explosion of young George's "Immense BALLOON", bought for him by his doting Granmamma, this particular story told then of the accidental demise of a goodly number of the domestic staff of a very large house.

After he had read it to his young son for the very first time, ever thereafter Tom referred to it as "The Downton Abbey Tale". When, subsequently, he read it aloud to little Danny, Tom took fiendish delight in renaming all the servants who had been blown to smithereens so as to match those who were still in service at Downton and whom he disliked, including Thomas Barrow. The end of the tale Tom also altered, adding in a couple of lines of his own:

"And so, while All the others Sadly died,

Most Happily, Branson the Chauffeur survived".

It was only several years later, having now learned to read for himself, that to his great surprise, young Danny found that his beloved Da's repeated spirited rendition of the story of George and his "Immense BALLOON" was not quite as Hilaire Belloc had penned it.

And, as to the reason why Sybil never asked where Danny had been, if he had had a lovely time, the answer was in fact quite simple; she already knew all about the Sunday afternoon trips out to Howth in the bright yellow Wolseley... from none other than young Ruari himself and so, had no need to ask. Knew too that the "breakneck" runs were nowhere near as fast as little Danny imagined them to be; the Wolseley simply didn't have that turn of speed.

Then, in later years when Danny was older, aged eight or thereabouts, having pestered his father for ages and only after having sworn him to utmost secrecy Tom had then agreed to teach him how to ride it, glimpsed from an upstairs window, Sybil knew too all about those slow speed rides on Tom's old British army motorcycle; up and down the narrow lane which lay at the back of their house in Idrone Terrace in Blackrock.

While, of course, this all lay in the future, unsurprisingly, as the years both came and went, despite the decidedly innocent plotting and scheming of both her menfolk, there was very little that went on concerning her family that Sybil did not actually know about; a truism if ever there was one.

* * *

In the Tourer, little Danny now giggled again and, seated on Sybil's other side, Saiorse began to whimper.

"It's all right, darling". Sybil hugged the little girl tightly to her. "Da will drive more slowly now. **Won't you**, Da?"

"Sorry, love," called Tom over his shoulder and sounding contrite while, at the same time and invisible to Sybil, sporting a decidedly unabashed lop-sided grin. "For sure, independence certainly hasn't improved the state of the ruddy roads down here in the south. They were as bad as this when I was using the 'bike! Jaysus!"

The motor lurched again; Sybil grimaced, gave a quick tug to her hat and hugged both of the children tightly to her.

"Tom, darling, please!"

The speed of the Tourer now slowed noticeably.

"Good turn of speed though! Fifty miles an hour tops! When I spoke with him on the telephone, Matthew said he envied me!"

"Yes, well Matthew would, wouldn't he?" Sybil shouted, endeavouring to make herself heard over the constant noise of the slipstream. Evidently she had been, as she now saw Tom nod his head. His hair dishevelled by the wind, briefly he turned to glance at her before returning to concentrate his gaze on the road ahead.

"And?" called out Tom, realising intuitively that Sybil had something else to say to him upon the subject now under discussion.

"Darling, you know Matthew's always been the same; in fact, ever since **you** taught him to drive and on **your **recommendation bought that Crossley in York not long after he and Mary were married!"

"So it's all my fault then?" chuckled Tom loudly. "Jaysus! I thought we were over all that long since!"  
"Over all what?"

"Of course, I blame Branson!" laughed Tom and mimicking his father-in-law's voice to perfection.

Sybil giggled.

"Darling, I'm not **blaming **you for Matthew's love of speed. All I'm saying is that you know just as well as I do how Mary feels about it, especially with what happened just after little Robert was born when he put the Crossley through that gate and into that hay rick on the far side of the estate".

* * *

In the immediate aftermath of the happy birth of his son, Matthew's near head-on collision with a traction engine had now passed into the annals of Crawley family history.

By his own freely-given admission, Matthew had been distracted, musing contentedly over the events of the past twenty four hours which, with Dr. Clarkson in attendance, had seen Mary give birth to Robert James Crawley weighing in at a healthy 8lb 7oz. Thereafter, pressing estate business had taken Matthew over to West Fell Scar.

A beautiful late summer's day, absolutely delighted with the birth of his son and heir, grateful that Mary had come through the whole business with flying colours as Matthew himself termed it, the reforms in the management of the Downton Abbey Estate he had instituted at last beginning to show results, the putative earl of Grantham had hit the accelerator.

The narrow country road which led over to West Fell Scar and along which Matthew had been driving was such that, had he seen it, would have provided G. K. Chesterton with the inspiration for his well-known poem "The Rolling English Road" as it twisted and turned its way across the slopes of Lower Whernside Ridge. His mind understandably on other things, paying no attention whatsoever to the speed at which he was driving, Matthew headed swiftly on. When his business over at West Fell Scar was completed all he wanted to do was to return home to Mary and their baby son as quickly as possible. Matthew grinned broadly; his much loved brother-in-law Tom had been decidedly right about this family lark.

Now, had it not been for the cloud of steam and smoke, suddenly clearly visible above the hedges further on down the deeply banked lane, Matthew would have run straight into the lumbering, snorting traction engine slowly proceeding the other way. As it was, at the very last minute, alerted to the presence of the oncoming Fowler steam engine and its heavily loaded trailer labouring up Deepdale Lane, with no time whatsoever to apply the brake, Matthew had wrenched the Crossley violently to the left. The motor had careered through a wooden gate and into the field beyond, ending up with the front end of the Crossley buried in a hay rick. Fortunately, other than some minor scratches and dents there was no real damage to the motorcar and thankfully none to Matthew either; except that was, to his pride.

When next the Bransons were over in England from Ireland, for the happy event of young Robert's christening, on learning exactly what had happened at first hand from Matthew himself, overcome with concern for his best friend, forgetting where he was, seated at the dinner table in Downton Abbey,Tom's comment had been pithy and to the point.

"Jaysus! Yous might have been killed, yous feckin eejit!"

All conversation round the dining table had ceased immediately.

There followed a moment's pause of absolute silence; this was ended by the aristocratic voice of none other than the Dowager Countess herself.

"And what, pray, is a _feckin_ _eejit_?" asked Violet drily.

Tom flushed red, the earl of Grantham's mouth gaped and a shocked Carson found himself pouring wine into a non existent decanter.

"Carson, are you all right?" asked Robert turning in his chair.  
"Forgive me, my Lord. I have been singularly inattentive". The elderly butler scowled at Tom and began mopping up the wine spilled over the top of the mahogany buffet. Sybil thankfully now came to her embarrassed husband's assistance.

"An Irish term of endearment, Grandmamma," she said quietly.

"Oh, is that what it is? Really?" observed Violet coolly, managing at the same time to sound thoroughly unconvinced.

* * *

"When Edith mentioned in one of her letters about learning how to fly… apparently, out in Egypt, she met up with some Austrian chap who flew during the war, Matthew said he wouldn't mind doing the same. Mama said Papa nearly had a fit. I think he had visions of the two of them taking it in turns wing walking and looping the loop together somewhere in the skies over Downton during the Statute Fair! God knows what Granny would have to say about such a thing!" Sybil laughed and then, in a perfect emulation of her grandmother's querulous voice, added: "The family, must never be a topic of conversation".

Tom chuckled, the sound of his laughter all but drowned out by the rushing noise of the wind.

"Why, ever since Matthew and Mary stayed with the Roystons down at Godalming last autumn when Matthew had a chance to pay a visit to that blasted racing circuit out at Brooklands where he met up with Count Zborowski, Mary says he's been even worse. Apparently, Matthew's said something about asking the count to stay at Downton later this year. From what she said in her last letter, I know Mary isn't at all pleased".

"Zborowski? I wouldn't mind meeting him myself!" yelled Tom. "Great chap from all accounts. Knows life! When's he coming up to Downton?"

"Mary didn't say. I suspect **never**; not if she has anything to do with it! And, for God's sake, don't tell Matthew anything about your motorbike otherwise he'll be wanting one of those as well!"

"Too late, darlin'! I've already told him!"

"**Oh** **Tom**! What on earth for?"

Sybil shook her head in disbelief. Honestly, men!

Tom laughed again and blared hard on the horn as in a flurry of flapping wings a frightened pheasant took flight and soared over the hedge to safety in a field beyond the winding road.

* * *

A few miles further on and at last they now reached the point where the drive that had once led up to Skerries House turned off the road. Here, glancing at Sybil for reassurance, Tom slowed the motor almost to a crawl and having passed between the two weathered stone gate piers that marked the beginning of the drive, turned cautiously onto what was little more than a narrow, grass-grown, muddy track.

The Tourer edged slowly forward, the tangle of undergrowth brushing against both sides of the motor, the branches of the trees hanging low; much as they had done a lifetime ago, or so it seemed now, when, on a long gone summer's afternoon Maeve had driven her pony and trap along the drive after meeting them both from off the train at Skerries Road in the aftermath of the ambush.

The motor moved on at a snail's pace beneath the overarching trees until what seemed but a comparatively short while later, suddenly, they found themselves out of encroaching, silent woods and drawing to a stop in the sunshine on a wide grass grown stretch of rutted gravel.

For Tom, the very last time he had seen Skerries House had been on that chill, cold Saturday morning of 11th December 1920, when he had ridden away on his motorcycle bound for Cork. As for Sybil, the last view had been on a pitch black, starless January night and from the rear seat of the motor driven by Matthew; the whole house by then an inferno of soaring flame.

Having helped Sybil and the children out of the motor, Tom now turned to stand in quiet disbelief gazing at the scene of desolation before them, to where the gaunt, blackened, roofless ruins of the great house reared silent and sinister. At the top of the front steps, devoid of its doors, the main entrance led nowhere; lacking both frames and glazing, smoke stained window casements marched mutely across the blackened stonework of the front façade and looked sightlessly down upon the living.

Since the night of the fire, the wheeling years had run their round, the seasons had come and gone but even now the acrid smell and stench of burning still pervaded the ruins. Indeed, the passage of the intervening three years had done little to mask the horror of what had happened here. In the all pervading silence, the constant scream of the sea-birds nesting on the cliffs and the roar of the waves breaking on the shore below the house were clearly audible.

Then from somewhere, apparently in the vicinity of the old gardener's cottage, a door banged shut and heavy footsteps crunched on gravel.

**Author's Note:**

Built originally to house French prisoners captured during the Napoleonic Wars and still in use today, Dartmoor Prison is probably the best known of all English prisons. Eamonn de Valera was imprisoned here in 1916 in the aftermath of the Easter Rising.

"That little tent of blue..." comes from "The Ballad Of Reading Gaol" by Oscar Wilde.

Dating from the early 1920s, the Cubitt 16/20 Tourer was an English motor car designed and built by the short-lived (1920-25) Cubitt Company based at Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire. The 16/20 was a family car and considered good value for money.

That part of the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921 which provided for the retention of the monarchy caused much resentment in the newly established Irish Free State. In particular, the Oath of Allegiance to the Crown, required to be taken by those elected to the Lower House of the Irish Parliament and by Senators to the Irish Senate, became a key issue in the Irish Civil War of 1922-23.

For Mrs. O'Keefe, see Chapter 121 of "Home Is Where The Heart Is".

Opened in 1897, the red brick Metropole Hotel in Cork still stands on Mac Curtain Street. Edward VII is reputed to have taken tea here in 1903.

Raheny is a suburb on the north side of Dublin.

Built in the 1840s, with spectacular sea views, Idrone Terrace, Blackrock still exists.

For Tom's adopted family in Clontarf, see both "Home Is Where The Heart Is" and "The Rome Express". See Chapter 101 of the former, entitled "O'Brien's Revenge", in which Sybil teaches young Ruari how to dance.

Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953) was an Anglo-French writer. Published in 1907, his "Cautionary Tales For Children" are hilarious.

Renowned for the creation of his fictional priest-detective Father Brown, G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936) was an English writer. "The Rolling English Road" is probably the best known of all his poems.

Opened in 1907 and measuring 2.75 miles in extent, Brooklands, built near Weybridge in Surrey, was the world's first purpose-built racing circuit.

Count Louis Vorow Zborowski (1895-1924) was an English racing driver and motor car designer. One of his racing cars was called "Chitty Bang Bang" which later inspired the book, film and stage musical Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang. Sadly, he was killed in a crash at the Italian Grand Prix at Monza in October 1924, so Mary may be worrying unnecessarily about him paying a visit to Downton.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

On With The Dance

**Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Ireland, December 1921.**

On that cold, frosty December Sunday morning, less than a week after the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty in London, it may have been nothing more than the mournful scream of the whistle from the Dublin bound train as it steamed along the coast just below Idrone Terrace before rattling at speed through the deserted station at Blackrock.

Then again, it may equally have been the stinging blast of rain which spattered hard against Tom and Sybil's first floor bedroom window or it may have been nothing more than the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels of the milk cart in the road outside the Bransons' home.

Indeed, it may have been any one of these things or it may have been none of them at all which caused Tom Branson to turn fretfully in his wife's comforting arms, to shift uneasily in his slumbers as in sleep he found himself yet still languishing in his bleak cell in Dartmoor prison in the far south-west of England.

* * *

It was during this same time, that in July 1921 an uneasy Truce had come into being between the British Government and the IRA. Then, during the five months which followed, there had been an intense series of negotiations held between the two opposing sides in the hitherto, seemingly intractable Irish conflict.

Tom's release from prison had come unexpectedly, but a matter of weeks after the Truce had been agreed, at the end of that same summer, with almost no word of warning and no explanation, other than that suddenly, all charges against him had been dropped; he was left wondering if there was more to all of this than at first seemed apparent and which indeed proved to be the case.

On the morning of his release, having travelled down over night by train from York - despite her voluble protests her father had insisted that she take a sleeping compartment - Sybil was there to meet Tom at midday at the prison gates in Princetown. Safely back at Downton to a near delirious welcome from the rest of the family, over the next few weeks he and Sybil pondered their future, the course of which was determined by Tom receiving a letter from his former editor at the Irish Independent, offering him his old job back. This followed so hard on the heels of his release from prison that Tom was left wondering if the two things were somehow connected. The truth of the matter Tom would not learn until what came to pass many months later down on an isolated road in County Cork.

Eager to return to Ireland, the Bransons and their two children sailed for Kingstown on a glorious August day. After all their recent trials and tribulations, the sea crossing proved singularly uneventful, enjoyed especially by young Danny who proved now and as he grew older to have far better sea legs than his father. So, while a decidedly seedy feeling Tom stayed seated down in the main saloon caring for Saiorse, holding tightly onto an excited little Danny, it was Sybil who stood by the stern rail of the RMS Ulster and watched as the steamer pier and the London and North Western Railway Hotel at Holyhead once more receded into the distance.

* * *

Back in Dublin, after but a brief spell staying with Ma and meeting up again with all of Tom's adopted family, with Tom having resumed his job at the Independent down on Talbot Street, both he and Sybil decided that, with two small children, despite Ma's protests that they were welcome to stay in Clontarf for as long as they liked, it was high time that they found a place of their own. This they duly did, with the purchase of their first house on Idrone Terrace, overlooking the sea, at Blackrock, on the south side of the city.

Meanwhile the interminable peace negotiations continued their tortuous way, culminating, at long last with the Anglo-Irish Treaty being signed in London at 2.20am on Tuesday 6th December 1921, while it was still dark; a day which would eventually dawn dull beneath leaden skies.

On the face of it, the Treaty should have been welcomed by one and all on both sides of the conflict; a lasting peace ushered in between both Great Britain and Ireland, which put an end to the Irish War of Independence and consigned it to history.

All British troops were to be withdrawn from the south of Ireland, which henceforth was to be known as the Irish Free State and which was to be permitted to create its own armed forces and police force along with being given control over it fiscal policy, tariffs and customs.

So far so good.

* * *

But, said Tom, several nights later, while seated next to Sybil in front of the fire in the quiet of the sitting room of their new home, the granting of these concessions were a positive affront to many of those serving in the precarious coalition government of Prime Minister David Lloyd George over there in London. Whatever they might claim in public, in private the Unionist Conservatives who made up most members of the British Cabinet were in reality opposed to any form of independence being granted to de Valera's nascent Irish government-in-waiting, other than Home Rule and for some that was a step too far. As for the very idea of Ireland becoming a republic, that was utterly repugnant.

Acquiesce to Irish demands and grant a skein of freedoms to this one small part of His Majesty's dominions and where would it all lead? Where would it all end? After all there were already rumblings of discontent in other parts of the far-flung British Empire chafing under colonial rule, not least of all the jewel in the crown that was India.

Mindful of this and in order so as to bring the seemingly interminable round of negotiations on the future of Ireland to a swift resolution, it was now known that the wily Welshman Lloyd George had threatened the Irish delegation to the peace talks with "immediate and terrible war" if they did not agree to sign the Treaty as now framed; forcing them to accept the partition of island of Ireland into Northern Ireland and the Irish Free State in the south, which in turn was made to retain King George V as Head of State as well as accepting that the British government would have access for the time being to three ports for use by the Royal Navy.

Unsurprisingly, therefore, the terms of the Treaty failed to satisfy those diehard Irish republicans across the sea in Dublin who were intent on seeking full independence from Great Britain for all of Ireland, among them de Valera himself, who all viewed the emergent Treaty as a betrayal of the Irish Republic which had been proclaimed during the Easter Rising.

And it was this which Tom had been explaining to Sybil, sitting snugly together by the fireside in the sitting room of their new home in Idrone Terrace, while at the same time wrapping up Christmas presents for Danny and little Saiorse, as well as for their several nephews and nieces over here in Ireland.

Put simply, said Tom, it was a fudge and one which he very much feared would serve only to store up a legacy of both bitterness and mistrust; not only between the new Irish Free State and Great Britain but also between the Irish themselves. Admittedly, the Dáil here in Dublin had yet to ratify the terms of the Treaty but even, if that did come to pass, as indeed seemed likely, when Sybil asked what was really troubling him, Tom, with his head in his hands, observed mournfully that he was deeply worried by what the future might hold in store.

"There, that's the last of them," sighed Sybil contentedly and setting down a now brightly wrapped large box which inside contained what was Danny's first clockwork train set. "Oh Tom! Is that really the best you can do?" she exclaimed on viewing Tom's ham-fisted attempt at wrapping up a present for Padraig, Donal and Niamh's eight year old son. Sybil sighed. "Honestly, Tom, you've made a right pig's ear of it. Here, give it me!"

He grinned, shamefaced.

"Darlin', I'm not much good at it".

"I don't know why. You're usually so good with your hands".  
"I'm very glad you've noticed!" He chuckled. "Especially good at **unwrapping** though! I'm expert at that for sure".  
"And, may I say, Mr. Branson, so modest with it too. Anyway, I wasn't talking about **that**!" Sybil looked up at him and smiled; her face was flushed, albeit but only partly from the heat of the fire.

"Not my kind of thing".

"So I can see. You know, young Riordan could make a better job of this! And he's only four".  
"Padraig won't mind".

"Tom, darling, that's hardly the point. There that's the best I can do with it". So saying, Sybil placed young Padraig's present - a book on myths and legends of Ireland - which even Tom had to admit now looked rather more respectable than it had done but a few minutes earlier, on the floor along with all the rest. Then she grew serious.

"Darling, we've weathered all manner of storms, you and I. And if this one comes, what ever it brings, we'll survive it just like all the rest!"

At her words of reassurance, Tom smiled.

"Jaysus, Sybil. What would I ever do without you? You know it's what I always dreamed of; a free and independent Ireland! But as de Valera said this... this so-called settlement is neither one thing nor the other for sure! Apparently, he was feckin' furious with Collins for agreeing to it, any of it!" Tom swilled his glass and drained it of whiskey.

"Well, from what you've already told me, Mr. Collins didn't have much option. Didn't you say also that he didn't want any part in leading the negotiations over there in London".

Tom nodded and smiled broadly on hearing his wife refer to Michael, the MP for Cork South, Minister for Finance in de Valera's Cabinet as well as holding a whole host of other appointments, among them Director of Intelligence for the Irish Republican Army, as plain Mr. Collins.

"That's true enough. That's what he told me himself".

Tom paused, sat gazing quietly into the fire thinking back to that very first time he had met Michael Collins, some years earlier, in a shed at the Inchicore railway works, when he had the misfortune to have been kidnapped by the IRA.

"Then... it would seem that de Valera only has himself to blame for what's now happened. Maybe..." Sybil paused.  
"Maybe what?"  
"Maybe... maybe he suspected this is what might happen all along. That he didn't want to play any direct part in the negotiations with the British himself so that if the deal struck was anything short of what he wanted – a republic – then he could disassociate himself from what had been agreed with no damage to his own standing".

Tom raised his head and grinned broadly at her in the firelight.

"You know, sometimes I do forget what a clever girl I married!"

"Only clever?" Sybil's voice had taken on a husky tone. Knowing of old what that betokened,Tom smiled. A moment later and he had her held fast in his arms. Shortly thereafter, if only for the moment, all thought of the Anglo-Irish Treaty now forgotten by the both of them, Tom carried Sybil swiftly upstairs to bed.

* * *

Later, as she lay comfortably naked and warm, held tight, safe within the comforting circle of his strong arms, both of them sated and utterly content from their love-making, Sybil smiled.

"Tom, darling..." she whispered

"Hm?" Tom was drowsy, at this hour, almost half asleep.  
"You were right about one thing though".

"Only one?" Tom now opened an enquiring eye.

"Your skills in unwrapping!" giggled Sybil and promptly turned out the lamp.

* * *

Sadly, as subsequent events proved, Tom was right to be nervous and, with what came after, Sybil was left wondering if her handsome Irish husband was possessed of what Ma over in Clontarf on the north side of Dublin Bay called dara sealladh: the gift of Second Sight.

For, but a matter of months later, despite or perhaps because of the ratification of the Treaty by the Dáil, Ireland descended into the chaos and violence of civil war. For their part, the Bransons would find themselves unwillingly sucked into the vortex; the repercussions of which they would not feel fully until some ten years later when they and the Crawleys both had boarded the Rome Express at the Gare Maritime in Calais.

* * *

**Skerries House, County Cork, Irish Free State, July 1924.**

Tom spun round to be confronted by a fair haired young man standing squarely before him on the gravel in front of the gaunt, blackened ruins of the great house. For one, single, heart-stopping moment, he thought he was looking at a younger version of himself...

* * *

**Langthorpe Hall, Yorkshire, England, June 1926.**

First Tom and then Matthew had offered to do so. However, in the end, it fell to Farrar to drive the four of them over to Langthorpe Hall to attend the evening's festivities which, on reflection, was probably just as well.

As Matthew had observed, with Tom behind the steering wheel of the new green 6½ litre Bentley, a recently purchased and long overdue replacement for the elderly blue Renault which the former chauffeur had once driven, if Tom then ran true to form and maintained his usual lacklustre turn of speed, like as not they would all arrive at Langthorpe after the house had been shut up and everyone else had gone to bed. Somewhat miffed, Tom had countered by pointing out that given Matthew's love of speed, there was every likelihood of them not arriving at all. Admittedly, with the completion of what was now known simply and fittingly as the Memorial Ward, in honour of the sacrifice of those local men who had died in the Great War, the facilities on offer down at the Cottage Hospital in Downton had been significantly enhanced from what they had been in the past. In private, the family still referred to the hospital extension as "Tom's Room". None the less, said Tom, he did not want to find himself occupying one of the twelve new beds on account of Matthew having driven the Bentley into a ditch.

"Not even with darling Sybil in attendance to mop your fevered brow?" asked Matthew with a chuckle and a wink.

Tom looked horrified.

"Certainly not. You haven't seen the no-nonsense way she treats her patients: I have. If it was a choice between struggling into work with bubonic plague or being treated at home by Sybil, I'd opt for work. Do you know, the last time I was ill enough to stay in bed, she.." Out of the corner of his eye, catching sight of their elegantly dressed wives descending the main staircase of Downton Abbey, Tom deftly changed the subject.

"Jaysus, darlin', you look beautiful," he simpered.

"Do you really like it?" Sybil asked pirouetting on the bottom step of the staircase, revelling in her husband's earnest approval. She was wearing a beaded sapphire blue lace over champagne satin evening gown which served only to accentuate every part of her shapely female form.

Unfortunately, in his haste to compliment Mary, Matthew managed to say the wrong thing.

"Darling, you look utterly divine". So far, so good. Mary positively purred her delight. "Worth every penny". Before his last words were out of his mouth, Matthew realised that he had blundered; saw Mary's eyes narrow. Remembered too late that the cost of her Handley-Seymour gown, a lovely creation in stunning burgundy ribbon embroidered tulle, had been a bitter bone of contention between the both of them.

* * *

A warm summer's evening and the full length windows to the ground floor ballroom of Langthorpe Hall, the ancestral home of the Braithwaite family had been thrown wide open to admit the mild night air.

Much as the Crawleys had lived at Downton Abbey for some four centuries, so too the Braithwaites of Langthorpe had been here in the West Riding of Yorkshire since the mid fifteenth century. The present hall, the third on the site, had been built in the eighteenth century, a beautiful, elegant, sash-windowed, Georgian house of mellow red brick with ashlar chimney stacks and quoins, nestling beneath a slate roof and topped with an elegant cupola; possessed of commanding views of the surrounding countryside, with balustraded terraces and manicured lawns sweeping down to the banks of the River Ure. In all an estate of some fifteen thousand acres.

With Robert indisposed and Cora refusing to leave his side, it was here, on a beautiful June evening, some ten miles east of Downton, that Matthew and Mary along with Tom and Sybil found themselves representing the earl and countess of Grantham, attending the ball thrown to celebrate the marriage of the Honourable Algernon Robert - "Algy" - aged twenty five years, the second son of Lord and Lady Braithwaite.

Of the same generation as the three Crawley girls, there the similarity between them and the two Braithwaite boys ended. There had, of course, once been three of them but Captain Charles Braithwaite M.C. - the medal had been awarded posthumously - Algy's elder brother, who had been not only the earl of Grantham's godson but also in Robert's opinion "the best of all of them", had suffered the singular misfortune to encounter, at close quarters, a German whizz bang at Ypres on the Western Front in July 1917.

The result of Charles being quite literally, blown to pieces was that Algy was now heir to the family estate; not that he took any interest in the running of it. Indeed, these days, he came home as little as possible so as to avoid the constant, lengthy and repetitive parental sermons on doing his duty, settling down and taking his responsibilities seriously. In fact, all that mattered to Algy was that the Langthorpe estate continued to provide him with sufficient means to indulge his twin passions: fast motors and fast women and not necessarily in that particular order.

For several years now, flying visits back up to Yorkshire had become the definite order of the day, with Algy choosing to spend most of his time up in London but, even around Ripon, in the remote fastness of the West Riding, rumours of his dissolute conduct, centring on the Kit Kat Club in the West End, were rife. A favourite haunt of the smart set and said to number some thirty or so sons of the nobility among its members, the club played host to an eclectic mix of the rich, the aristocratic, the famous and the bohemian with drink, drug-taking and promiscuity being the norm.

Young Algy's membership of the Kit Kat Club apart, his attitude to life in general and to all its many and varied responsibilities was best summed up in the insouciant reply he had given to an absent-minded, elderly relative who, finding Charles apparently unaccountably missing from a family dinner party in December 1920, had asked Algy in all innocence where his eldest brother was and how he was faring.

"_Rather difficult to say, old chap. Haven't seen Charlie in ages, don't you know. Last I heard, he was somewhere in France. In fact, all over the place, or so I've been led to believe". _

Apart from the fact that Ypres lay in Belgium and not France, given the fact that after Charles was killed, understandably, given the circumstances, his body was never found, Algy's riposte was admittedly an accurate reflection of how matters then stood. It was also both callous and insensitive; both his parents were standing close by and within open earshot of what their younger son was saying.

* * *

Equally, the previous year, in 1925, while at Downton to celebrate Robert's sixtieth birthday, Algy had let his mouth run away with him once again.

At the time, Tom and Sybil had brought the children over from Dublin and were staying at the abbey so as to be with "Grandpapa" on his birthday. Of course, the children were all in bed and asleep when later, downstairs, with the evening's festivities well under way, in front of one and all, rather worse for drink, Algy, who was rumoured to have links to the British Fascist Party, as indeed did many others of his ilk, had berated Tom in the Drawing Room and loudly accused him of being a Communist agitator in the pay of Moscow. When Tom had denied the accusation and stood his ground, Algy, a drinking crony of Larry Grey, had tried another tack and, with Tom swimming in and out of focus before his eyes, with his forefinger, Algy had repeatedly jabbed the Irishman's right shoulder.

"Wait... wait a minute..." Algy slurred. " I know you. You're... you're that grub... grubby little chau... chauffeur chappie, Larry told me all about you. Do be a good sport and fetch the motor, old chap".

There was a moment's pause while Sybil, along with Matthew and Mary, all of whom were standing close by and thus overheard Algy's unpleasant remarks, fearing the worst, now held their collective breaths; waited for Tom to give full rein to the famous Branson temper.

Not that they need have worried. For, just as in the intervening years Robert had come to appreciate and value his Irish son-in-law, so too Tom had come to admire and respect his English, aristocratic father-in-law greatly. He therefore had no intention whatsoever of ruining Robert's birthday celebrations and it was now, instead of making a scene, that the natural dignity which was inherent in Tom prevailed.

Well, almost.

Taking advantage of the fact that a nearby pillar more or less shielded the two of them both from view, none too gently, grabbing hold of Algy by his shoulders, Tom shoved him hard against the wall. Immediately above their heads the large painting in its heavy gilt frame, a picture of one of Robert's forbears depicted on horseback at the battle of Waterloo, wobbled ominously.

"You're feckin' drunk, so I won't even dignify your last remark with a reply," hissed Tom. "What I will say is that you are a guest in the house of my father-in-law, the earl of Grantham. I suggest you remember that and start behaving accordingly. Understood?" Tom added in a menacing undertone.

He now suddenly released his grip on the inebriated Algy who, the instant he was deprived of the Irishman's support, now slithered in a heap to the floor where for a moment or two he simply sat huddled, gawking and blinking up at his assailant. No-one had ever spoken to him like that before, let alone in public. For a minute he said nothing. Then, as Tom stepped back, Algy, albeit with some difficulty, managed to pull himself to his feet where he gave his erstwhile opponent an insolent, leery smile, and laughed a harsh laugh.

"Well, if we can't stop the bloody revolution, let's have some fun instead," he slurred, making to grab another glass of champagne from off the silver salver held by Jimmy. As if from nowhere, a firm hand suddenly closed around his limp wrist.

"Oh, no you don't! I think you've had quite enough already!" This from Matthew who deftly snatched the brimming glass from out of a startled Algy's hand and replaced it carefully back on Jimmy's tray.

"Eh? What?" Algy staggered and almost cannoned into Jimmy; the glasses on the tray rattled noisily.

"I say, steady on!" Algy seemed not to have heard what Matthew had said; tried once again to take a glass from off the tray beside him.

"You heard me. I said no more," repeated Matthew, his voice now rising.

"Have it your own way, old bean!" responded Algy, insolently.

Leaving Tom and Matthew to exchange wry glances, none too steadily, the young man now sauntered slowly off into the crowd, to be swallowed up by the happy, milling throng of guests, come to toast the continued health and well-being of Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham.

Tom shook his head in disbelief at Algy's retreating form.

"Were we ever like that, when we were his age?"

"I'd like to think not," said Matthew ruefully.

"Oh, knowing you two, I expect you had your moments!" laughed Mary.

* * *

Algy's younger brother Edward Henry - "Eddie" - was the third of the Braithwaite boys. Slightly more personable than Algy, having failed to complete his degree, Eddie had recently left Oxford, to pursue a career in journalism, although from what Tom had observed of him and his constant chum "Floppy", if Eddie Braithwaite was at all serious about becoming a journalist, which Tom somehow doubted, then he would have to apply himself to the task. With this thought in mind, this evening, on their way over to Langthorpe Hall, seated in the back of the Bentley, Tom observed pithily that it was his considered opinion that if ever there was one single reason for the wholesale elimination of the English aristocracy, then look no further than Algy and Eddie Braithwaite; dim as a Toc H lamp the pair of them.

Sybil smiled at the picture that conjured up; thought too that from what she had learned recently, it was debatable if the next generation of Braithwaites would be any more intelligent than the present. For her part, she was aware that recently Algy's louche life had revolved around a succession of country house parties, at one of which, down in Surrey he had met his fiancée. In fact, given who it was whom Algy had decided to marry it was, thought Sybil, highly unlikely that there would indeed be another generation of Braithwaites. For, Algy's fiancée turned out to be none other than the dim-witted, flat-chested, vacuous Millie Anstruther whose family home in Ireland, Cullen Hall in County Cork had, until it was burned by the IRA, bordered the Skerries estate. Now residing back in England, at her parents' home close to Alcester in Warwickshire, thinking back to what she could remember of her one and only meeting with the dim-witted Millie, Sybil thought that she and Algy Braithwaite were exceptionally well-suited.

* * *

A short distance away, outside on the stone-flagged upper terrace of Langthorpe Hall, the evening air heavy with the scent of both lavender and roses, the four of them stood together at the top of the steps which led down to the lower gardens.

"Dance with me, Tom? Please?" Sybil asked plaintively and with a coaxing smile.

"I don't think I …" began Tom. He grimaced and eased a forefinger gently between the stiff collar of his evening shirt and the soft skin of his neck. Of course, knowing how she so loved to dance, he hated to refuse her; especially given the way she was looking tonight.

"Tom, darling, you're an excellent dancer. You know you are," offered Mary now coming to the aid of her youngest sister.

"You're buttering me up!" chuckled Tom.

"Well, be that as it may, you know very well how Sybil loves to dance!" Then, threading her arm purposefully through his and steering Tom slowly across the flags of the terrace towards the house, Mary laughed as likewise arm in arm Matthew and Sybil followed close behind.

Clearly audible, even at this distance from the house, at a terrific tempo, the band was now belting out a spirited medley of tunes, among them_"The Black And White Rag"_ which was followed almost immediately by_"Yes Sir, That's My Baby"; _the resultant din in all probability being heard by the occupants of the pair of stone lodges some two miles distant which flanked the massive wrought iron gates and which marked the entrance to Langthorpe Hall.

As the four of them stepped over the threshold and into the packed ballroom they were confronted by a scene of absolute mayhem. To Robert and Cora and probably also to Mary and Sybil, the word "ball" no doubt conjured up the image of gentlemen smartly attired in tails and wearing white gloves, with the young ladies present seated quietly by potted palms, discretely half hidden by pillars and pilasters, waiting decorously to be asked if they would care to dance.

However, the scene before them this evening in the ballroom of Langthorpe Hall resembled nothing short of a rugby scrum, or so said Matthew. By his side Tom shook his head in disbelief, looked horrified and gesticulated towards a scene of apparent mayhem, the air hot and sticky, thick with a pungent mixture of cigarette smoke and scent, where a melee of young people, the men in lounge suits and the women with bobbed hair, heavily made up, sporting bright shades of lipstick, wearing disgracefully short skirts which left very little to the imagination, many of them smoking and most clearly the worse for drink, pawed each other and were "dancing" if that was what it could be called to the syncopated rhythms being played with gusto by the musicians of the large jazz band occupying the temporary raised platform which had been erected at one end of the vast room.

"Oh, don't mind them, Tom. They're just some of the bright young things!" laughed Sybil.

"Did you say** bright** young things?" asked Tom aghast. He had to shout to make himself heard. "If you ask me, they all look rather dim!"He grimaced again. Some of the women present looked to be scarcely more than young girls. In the nursery back at Downton, hopefully fast asleep, Saiorse was now six years old; some of these "women" with their fashionable flat chests, bobbed hair and short skirts looked to be little old than fifteen or sixteen. Ten years hence, Saiorse would be the same age. Already wilful, something which, Tom insisted Saiorse had inherited from her mother - naturally Sybil did not agree - Tom found himself imagining his daughter at sixteen and inwardly he shuddered.

"I need some air!" he croaked.

"Don't be such an old stick-in-the-mud!" giggled Sybil prodding Tom in the back.

Behind him, Mary smiled. Darling Tom had often said she had mellowed and now it seemed that in his old age, he himself was becoming quite conservative.

* * *

So, in deference to Tom's sensibilities, instead of joining the throng on the dance floor, the two couples strolled slowly back across the upper terrace. Then, arm in arm, they followed a long flight of stone steps bordered by high box hedges which led them downwards towards the lower terrace and its orangery, a many windowed building built originally to house lime and orange trees but now affording shelter to all manner of delicate and exotic plants, many of them highly scented.

Having reached the lower terrace, entranced by the scene which opened before them, here they all paused on the gravel path close to a balustrade set with several large lead urns and half a dozen accompanying life-size figures attired in rustic costumes and which, Matthew knowledgeably informed them, had been sculpted by le Notre and represented a group of dancing shepherds and shepherdesses. In the soft evening light the view towards the Italian Garden below was stunning; the clouds and sky mirrored perfectly in the still waters of the circular pool surrounding its magnificent fountain while over the brick wall at the far end of the garden could be glimpsed the stone tower of the parish church. Behind them, the walls of the orangery were a riot of colour, awash with floral cascades of climbing roses; their mingling, myriad scents creating a heady blend of intoxicating perfumes.

Glancing briefly at the lead figure closest to him, Tom grunted, shook his head in disbelief and then, clearly embarrassed by something, hastily averted his eyes. Intrigued both Sybil and Mary now moved closer to inspect the statue. Having done so, the two women exchanged amused glances and nodded in mutual understanding.

"Tom? Are you all right, old chap?" asked Matthew solicitously and clapping him heartily on the shoulders.

"Perfectly," responded Tom crisply and rather too promptly without even bothering to look up at his friend. Instead, resting his chin in his hands, the Irishman continued to gaze glumly and steadfastly out over the stone balustrade to somewhere apparently in the far middle distance.

Long ago, on one of the Bransons' visits back to Downton, one evening, after dinner, with Matthew and Tom playing billiards, upstairs in Mary's bedroom when they were therefore alone and in the mood for exchanging confidences, Sybil had confided to Mary that for all his seeming bravado, when it came to matters sexual, while Tom was a wonderful and attentive lover, he was also an intensely private person. Had told Mary of her brother-in-law's shocked, almost Puritanical reaction to the sketches of male nudes by Patrick Hennessey which both he and Sybil had encountered years back in one of the rooms of the National Gallery of Ireland on Merrion Square in Dublin. Had told her sister too of the nude sketch Sybil herself had made of Tom out at the Rainbow Pool on Ciaran's farm.

Sensing the reason for Tom's present bout of acute embarrassment, Sybil now came to stand beside her husband and slipped her arm around his hunched shoulders.

"Darling, it's only art. Remember?"

Clearly he did as, once again, Tom grunted and sadly shook his head.

"Really? Is that what you call it? I mean, honestly, when have an you ever seen a shepherd dancing, let alone one dressed like that?" Without looking up, Tom pointed his forefinger and then waved his left hand in the general direction of the nearest of the lead statues.

This depicted the fine, muscular figure of a bareheaded young man playing a flute and attired in... well in fact attired in very little save for a thin strip of material presumably some kind of wispy scarf, casually flung round his shoulders. This apart, the well-endowed young man was stark naked with nothing whatsoever left to the imagination.

Sybil giggled and Mary stifled a laugh. It was not often that she had seen her cocksure, handsome brother-in-law so clearly discomforted.

"Oh, Tom, darling!" Sybil kissed him lightly on his cheek and chucked him under his chin.

Matthew now moved from where he had been standing beside Tom and considered the statue of the shepherd lad for himself. Clearly amused by his worldly-wise, Irish brother-in-law's obvious discomfiture at the nudity, not something that from their frank exchanges in the Billiards Room at Downton Matthew himself would ever for a moment have imagined would have caused Tom any embarrassment whatsoever, the putative earl of Grantham nodded his head.

"Excellently done; I'd say probably sculpted from life," Matthew said with a laugh and a wink to both Mary and Sybil, unaware that he was echoing the very words his sister-in-law herself had used to her own husband in respect of the sketches in the National Gallery of Ireland.

"And is that supposed to make me feel any better?" asked Tom morosely and straightening up.

"It's not supposed to make you feel anything, old chap. Merely an observation, that's all, although I agree not everyone, you obviously, like this sort of thing," said Matthew flatly.

"It's not that. Not what you think. Not that at all". Tom ghosted a smile.

"Well, what then?" This from Mary.

Tom sighed.

"I know it's foolish of me and you'll all think me feckin' stupid but I just find it utterly ridiculous that the English aristocracy imagine that working on the land, out in all weathers is some kind of pastoral idyll". Tom turned back to Sybil. "Darlin' you've seen the reality of it over there in Ireland! When we went down to Skerries that last time, you saw the farm belonging to the Ryans. And many over here in England, especially on the big estates are not much better; no investment, the tenants living in squalor while the feckin' aristocracy waste their money on this kind of bleedin' nonsense! Let alone what's going on back in there!"

Tom jabbed a finger in the direction of the mansion house, from attic to basement ablaze with lights and from which could be heard the unmistakeable beat of _The Charleston._

"Well, darling, as a paid up member of what you term the feckin' aristocracy, Tom, while I do appreciate your Irish candour, there's another side to all of this," said Mary.  
"Really?" Tom's eyebrows lifted heavenward in earnest surprise.

"Yes, really. Darling Tom, you can't expect to right all the wrongs in society single-handedly and, while I don't doubt the sincerity of your views, think of what Matthew has done for Downton over the last few years. Why, ever since he sunk his money into the estate he's been hell bent on all manner of improvements, seeing to long overdue repairs, not only to cottages down in the village, but out on the farms too, to the outbuildings, arranging re-roofing and the bringing in of piped water. Honestly, Matthew, the nights I've sat up waiting for you to come up to bed and then been treated to yet another exposition of what still needs doing to secure the future of the estate".

At this Tom and Sybil exchanged amused glances and which, not surprisingly, did not go unnoticed by Mary.

"Do either of you two know the difference between spring and winter wheat? Or which is the more powerful, a Ferguson or a Fordson?"  
"They're different types of tractors," explained Matthew breezily.

"Well, neither did I," continued Mary, "but I do now; what with Matthew buying in new livestock and all the latest farm machinery, let alone paying for the construction of that petrol tank over beyond Home Farm. So, Tom, we're not all out to exploit the labouring poor!" She smiled warmly at her brother-in-law. "Matthew knows the estate better than Papa ever did".

Her husband chuckled.

"Possibly".

"No possibly about it, darling. You do! By the way, what's this I hear about the two of you heading off early in the Crossley over to Thirsk tomorrow?" asked Mary innocently.

"Thirsk?" asked Matthew nervously. "Why, whatever gave you that idea?"

The two men looked sheepishly at each other and then down at the ground where something now seemed to have simultaneously gained their undivided attention. Honestly, thought Mary, they looked just like two small boys caught red-handed in the act of scrumping apples. It was all she could do not to laugh.

"You won't find the answer down there. Either of you!" exclaimed Mary doing her very best to try and suppress a grin. Shamefaced, the Matthew and Tom men now looked up, met her gace and chuckled nervously. Mary's expressive dark brown eyes flicked first to Matthew, then to Tom and finally back to her husband.

"Sybil, darlin', you promised!" growled Tom.

"All I said was..."

* * *

In fact Sybil was being disingenuous. Last night, she had, in fact, said a very great deal, exchanging confidences with her elder sister and their mother.

It had been after dinner was over and the two boys, as her mother insisted on calling Matthew and Tom, had adjourned to the Billiards Room. With granny now too old and infirm to make the evening journey for dinner from the Dower House and with Robert feeling slightly out of sorts, nothing more than a touch of dyspepsia he had assured them, having made his apologies and retired early to bed, it had been just Cora, Mary and Sybil to whom Carson had served coffee in the Drawing Room.

"... and so how do you... I mean how do you... know, when Tom's being... evasive about something?" asked Mary.

"Well, he talks nineteen to the dozen about anything and everything; although come to think of it that's nothing new! He blushes and won't meet my eyes. And, if he's wearing them, he fiddles constantly with his cuff links!" laughed Sybil. "Why, whatever makes you ask?"

"The nods and looks those two were giving each other over dinner. And yesterday Matthew being just that much too attentive to my needs".

Cora lofted a brow.

"Mary, don't embarrass me, please".  
"Don't worry, Mama, I won't. That was what I meant. Despite what he told Edith, both of you know that Matthew doesn't like riding that much? Well, yesterday afternoon, while you were with Tom and Sybil and the children, he rode all the way with me over to Great Linton without a single murmur of complaint!"

Mary paused briefly in the telling of her tale.

"And then, given how sniffy he was a month or so ago, you remember Mama, don't you? About me ordering that evening gown from Madame Handley-Seymour up in town for tomorrow's do over at Langthorpe? Anyway, down in the stable yard, when we returned from our ride, Matthew had the nerve to tell me that if I really wanted that positively divine hat I'd seen in Bonham's over in Ripon, he no longer had any objection to me buying it!"

She paused again.

"You know, the more I come to think of it, ever since you all arrived here at Downton, those two have been as thick as thieves. Mark my words, Sybil, Matthew and Tom are up to something, I'm sure of it".

"Well, if it's any help, Mary, while we were all dressing for dinner Tom casually mentioned something about him and Matthew going over to Thirsk".

"Oh?"

"Something about a lorry. He said Matthew was going to talk to you about it. Then just as suddenly he clammed up and promptly changed the subject. When I asked him again, what he meant, he said it was nothing definite; just an idea Matthew and he had. Something to do with the estate".

"**A lorry**?" Mary sounded thoroughly mystified.  
"That was what he said, although to be perfectly honest, Mary, I really wasn't paying that much attention. But then, after dinner,when I went back upstairs later on, to look in on Danny and Saiorse, I found this on the floor of our bedroom". Sybil handed her sister a neatly folded newspaper cutting.

"I suppose it must have fallen out of the pocket of Tom's trousers when we..." Sybil blushed; she stopped what she was saying and grinned.  
"Oh, spare me the details, please!" admonished Mary with a laugh, now unfolding the cutting which she scanned with undisguised interest. Her brow puckered with dawning realisation before handing the newspaper cutting to her mother who studied it with equal interest.

"So, **that's** what they're up to! And after Matthew had the nerve to lecture me about extravagance! Why, they're absolutely incorrigible!" exclaimed Mary.

"Are you going to ask Matthew about it?" asked Cora now passing the cutting back to Sybil. Mary reflected carefully for a moment before she gave her reply. Then, smiling happily, she shook her head vigorously.

"No!" she said decisively. "I'm not going to say a single word. And don't you say anything either, Mama. And, Sybil, don't you let on to Tom that you know what those two are planning! When the time comes, just follow my lead. Promise?"

Sybil giggled.

"I promise!"

A knowing smile now stole across Mary's flawless, ivory features. "Do you remember that phrase of Papa's? The one coined by Baden-Powell, that he liked to quote to us when we were children; the one which made all three of us laugh?"

Sybil shook her head.

"No, I don't think I do".

"Softly, softly, catchee monkey!" Mary laughed. "Well, trust me, darling, you and I can play the same game those two **boys** are playing and what's more, do so infinitely better than either of them!"

Cora smiled. She loved her two sons-in-law dearly; but she had to admit that, when it came to it, neither of them, not even darling Tom, were a match for her girls.

* * *

"Jaysus! Darlin' I asked you not to say anything, at least until Matthew had a chance to speak to Mary!"

"And in case you've forgotten, you still haven't answered my question. Just why are the two of you going over to Thirsk in the morning?" asked Mary.

"Well, er... there are a couple of old army lorries up for sale at Bull's garage. Aren't there, Tom?" asked Matthew and looking at his best friend and brother-in-law for something bordering on reassurance.

Tom nodded his head in agreement.

"Why, to be sure. Advertised in the local paper". Obviously looking for something, he thrust his hands into the side pockets of his dinner jacket and from one of them pulled out a neatly folded newspaper cutting which he proffered to Mary. "See, here..."

"It's all right, Tom, I don't need to see that, whatever it is".

"It's an advertisement, from the Ripon Gazette but if you're quite sure..."

"Perfectly, thank you".

Tom smiled broadly and now just as hastily stuffed the cutting back in the pocket from whence he had pulled it. Then something seemed to arrest his attention and he began to fiddle absent-mindedly with one of his cuff links. A sure sign, at least to Sybil, that he was nervous about something, which indeed Tom was; despite just having deftly played what he knew Matthew would have called a perfect blinder.

Well-informed though she might be, it was hardly likely, thought Tom, that his elegant, aristocratic sister-in-law would have been that interested in a critical and incisive analysis of the latest doings in the Dáil. The newspaper cutting was in fact one of Tom's own articles recently published in the Irish Independent. Quite what he would have done if Mary had taken him at his word and asked to see it, Tom didn't like to imagine. No doubt he would have managed to think of something. As Sybil had once observed, he was often at his best when he found himself up against things.

But where, Tom wondered, was the cutting taken from the Ripon Gazette. He knew it had been in his trousers when, the previous night, in her impatience to make love, Sybil had pulled them off. Thereafter, what precisely had become of it, was anyone's guess. It was at that moment that a worrying thought struck him. No, surely not...

"So, er.. anyway, I thought, well... if the lorries are in any way sound we might be able to make use of them on the estate and even if not, perhaps we might be able to make one good vehicle out of two," explained Matthew.

"Like I said last night over billiards, a very good idea, old chap for sure!" enthused Tom warmly and clapping his friend happily on the back.

"And, as you know," continued Matthew beaming, looking coolly at Mary, now sounding, he hoped, rather more confident than he had done a few moments ago in the explanation he was giving,"I'm absolutely positively hopeless with motors and with Tom over here at Downton, he knows all about them and so forth".

Exceedingly well pleased with the praise being heaped upon him by his brother-in-law, Sybil saw that Tom was now grinning broadly from ear to ear just like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

"So... well... it seemed... like rather a good idea," Matthew now concluded somewhat lamely.

"Hm!" Mary's aristocratic nose twitched. She still sounded thoroughly unconvinced. "Well that being so, since Sybil and I have some shopping to do... Of course, we were going into Ripon in the morning but Thirsk will do just as well, won't it Sybil?" Then not waiting for her sister to reply she breezed on: "After all, I'm sure neither of you will mind if we both tag along".

"Tag along?" gulped Tom. "You mean..."

Mary smiled sweetly and nodded.

"Yes, Tom. Tag along. Exactly so. An English expression, but since you of all people are so gifted with words, I'm sure you are more than familiar with what it means?"

"Do enlighten me?" chuckled Tom.

"I hardly think that will be necessary," said Mary loftily. "Assuming, of course, that you two have told us the real reason why you intend disappearing off to Thirsk".

"But why on earth would you want to come to Thirsk? I mean, after all, when I took you over to the cinema in Sowerby to see Valentino in _The Sheikh_ you said it was all so thoroughly provincial". Matthew sounded aghast.

"Did I? Well, if I did, I must have been speaking of the clientèle. Not the place. After all, as I've often told you, darling, I say many things, mostly for effect and some of which you should instantly disregard".

Outwardly and it should be said solely for appearance, Mary now let her eyes narrow as if she was slightly displeased. Inwardly, she was rather enjoying all of this and find it increasingly difficult not to let the cat out of the bag before it became absolutely necessary to do so and thus reveal that she and Sybil knew precisely why it was Matthew and Tom were so keen to travel over to Thirsk in the morning.

Catching sight of the look of displeasure etched on his wife's face, realising that he had now completely lost this particular argument, Matthew did a sudden volte face.

"But, if both of you want to come with us, then yes of course, darling. We'd be more than delighted to have you along. Wouldn't we, Tom?"

Tom nodded and smiled warmly first at Sybil who merely shook her head in mock disbelief and then at Mary. There was something disconcertingly enigmatic about the expression she was now wearing. As for Matthew, he hastily nodded his assent too, then shot a beseeching look at his brother-in-law who once again came to his rescue.

"To be sure," said Tom and promptly smiled his familiar lop-sided grin.

"Less of the Irish blarney, if you please, Mr. Branson. So, I gather then, Sybil and I are to assume that your impromptu trip to Thirsk tomorrow morning is **solely** to do with the prospective purchase of two old army lorries which you consider may prove beneficial to the running of the estate?"

"Indeed. After all, what other reason could there be?" drawled Tom affably, his blue eyes dancing with mirth while Mary paused, seemingly to reflect on what she had just been told.

"Well, I suppose we **could** go into Ripon instead as we had planned," said Mary with a marked display of feigned reluctance. She turned back to Sybil who was now busying herself straightening Tom's bow tie. "What do you think, darling?"

"There that's better". Sybil placed her hands gently on Tom's broad shoulders, saw him grin smugly back at her, knowing how much she admired their breadth. "**Me**? I... well... To be honest, Mary... I haven't really given the matter that much thought. But, yes, if that's all right with you".

"Luncheon at the Unicorn Hotel in the Market Place and later you could take afternoon tea at the Guild House tea rooms," enthused Matthew. "And, if you really want to, you could buy that jolly hat, the one you so admired the last time we were there".

"You might like to do the same". Tom smiled at Sybil.

"How kind! Do I really need a new hat?" she offered disinterestedly. In the cool of the evening, seated on the moss-grown stone balustrade of the lower terrace, Sybil smiled broadly at Mary. Her sister had been right. Incorrigible and thick as thieves the pair of them!

"And there's positively no need to hurry back. Nanny Bridges will take good care of the children," chimed Matthew. He and Tom grinned enthusiastically and nodding their heads in unison.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

"Well, that's settled then," said Mary emphatically. "Luncheon at the Unicorn, afternoon tea at the Guild House and being permitted to buy myself a new hat! How utterly delightful. Matthew, darling, you spoil me. Thank you, thank you!"

They had the terrace to themselves and in the privacy that afforded them, in a rare display of public affection, Mary flung her arms around Matthew's neck and kissed him soundly. Then she drew back and suddenly became pensive.

"Of course, I suppose... none of this reckless extravagance in which we are both being so graciously permitted to indulge has anything to do with... what was it again, Sybil?"she asked guilelessly.

"A Brough Superior SS80" explained her sister helpfully at which revelation Matthew and Tom gulped and exchanged horrified glances.

Long ago, Matthew had observed that if Tom and he were "to take on the Crawley girls" then they would have to stick together but tonight, out classed and out gunned, they proved no match whatsoever for the combined forces of both Mary and Sybil.

"Yes that's right," continued Mary airily. "An SS80 and which, so I am reliably informed, is a... motorcycle. A high-powered motorcycle". Absent-mindedly, she brushed from off her dress a dust mote invisible to all except herself, then raised her ever expressive eyebrows.

"Well, er, I think that's for sale too..." stammered Matthew.

"So we thought we might..." began Tom lamely. Catching sight of the look on Mary's face, his voice trailed off into silence.  
"... have a look at the motorcycle as well? What a coincidence," observed Mary archly.

"It is, to be sure," said Tom.

"No, it isn't. Not when there's only one garage in Thirsk". Mary reached into her evening bag and pulled out a newspaper cutting. Recognising it immediately for what it was, Tom swallowed hard. Rather like Sybil, Mary on the warpath was a force with which to be reckoned.

"Mea culpa," offered Tom and Matthew abjectly with downcast eyes, meekly awaiting their fate. It was all Sybil and Mary could do not to laugh. They had never seen their two husbands look so contrite.

"We'll talk about all this later. Meanwhile, maybe there is a way you two scamps can start to make amends". Mary smiled. She nodded towards the distant house.

"Listen, they're playing your tune," giggled Sybil.

"And Matthew's!" laughed Mary.

Tom and Matthew each cocked an ear. A moment later and broad grins spread across their handsome features as each in turn instantly recognised the catchy melody now drifting down from the house across the manicured lawns towards where they were all standing on the steps of the orangery: _"What A Blue-Eyed Baby You Are"_.

"Perhaps". Tom laughed.

"Then don't you think..." began Mary.

She got no further as finally admitting defeat Tom now made Sybil a mock half obeisance, offered her his hand and led her through the open doors and into the building behind them. There, without further ado his wife moved forward into his arms and a moment later, midst the Tom had swung Sybil into the quick step in the centre of the orangery.

"And?" Mary raised an expressive eyebrow at her impossibly blond haired husband.

"I thought you'd never ask!" laughed Matthew as, following Tom and Sybil's lead, he now swung Mary onto the improvised dance floor midst an intoxicating, heady scent of honeysuckle, jasmine and citrus blossom.

"And I promise faithfully not to talk about either tractors or wheat!"

**Author's note:**

For Tom's adoptive family in Clontarf, see "Home Is Where The Heart Is", especially Chapters Five and Fifteen and for young Padraig's interest in dragons, see the end of Chapter Fifty Two.

The terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty stored up a legacy of lasting bitterness and having been narrowly ratified by the Irish government early in 1922 led inexorably to the Irish Civil War of 1922-23. Considering himself foremost to be a soldier and not a politician, Michael Collins was indeed reluctant to take part in the negotiations with the British government.

Elizabeth Handley-Seymour (c.1873-1948) was a London-based fashion designer and court dressmaker. She is best known for, in 1923, having created the wedding dress worn by Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon the future Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother for her marriage to the Duke of York.

In the 1920s, the Kit Kat Club in the West End of London was as described.

The TOC H Lamp refers to the light kept burning in the chapel of Talbot House at Poperinge in Belgium on the Western Front during the Great War. Here, in 1915, in a large house vacated by a Belgian brewer for the duration of hostilities, a club was opened for British soldiers of all ranks, furnished and equipped by donations from those back home in England, to give them a respite from the horrors of the trenches. The lamp in the chapel upstairs - formerly a loft for drying hops - was considered to be very dim. and in time, the Tommies coined the phrase "dim as the TOC H Lamp" to refer to anyone who was, in their opinion, not that bright! The TOC H Movement still exists, as does the house in Poperinge where there is a museum telling its story.

Andre Le Notre (1613-1700) was a French landscape architect and principal gardener to Louis XIV.

The Ritz Cinema in Thirsk dates back to 1912 and is one of Britain's oldest cinemas. Now operated by a trust and run by volunteers, it is still open for business and shows modern films in a period setting.

One of Ripon's oldest inns, the Unicorn Hotel in the Market Place is likewise still in business.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

A Moment In Time

**The Four Courts, Inns Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State, 4am, 28****th**** June 1922.**

Notebook and pencil in hand, keeping low behind an improvised barricade made up of a couple of wrecked army trucks off which, from time to time, the odd desultory bullet pinged like an angry hornet, causing him and those others around him to instinctively duck their heads, Tom Branson was crouching down, keeping out of sight, just beyond the end of the bridge.

Gazing intently across to the far bank of the river, he knew that there too, the view had been somewhat similar, with the buildings on the opposite side clearly visible to the naked eye. However, from the photographs he had seen since, instead of the imposing, ornate, granite mass opposite, he knew also that there had been a huddle of rather nondescript structures, among them the three-storey bulk of Schiller's delicatessen occupying a prominent corner site overlooking both the bridge and the river and which, for all he knew, did so still.

It had been summer back then too; what, in fact, turned out to be a blisteringly hot and sweltering day. However, there the similarity ended, for, the waters of the river he had in his mind's eye, albeit only fleetingly, had in fact been brown, their flow in the intense heat of mid-summer desultory, indeed little more than an inconsequential trickle; unlike the the constant silvery flood now coursing softly before him in the grey light of the breaking dawn.

Only the date was the same: 28th June, the significance of which, with his love of history and politics, was not lost on Tom.

Eight years ago to this very day, if not the hour, far away on the banks of another river, in a hot, dusty town in the Balkans had been fired the shot which had been heard around the world: the shooting dead of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, whose assassination by Gavrilo Princip, had led inexorably to the outbreak of the Great War.

Even now, after all this time, Tom could still recall, what had happened several weeks later, when, at that long gone August garden party held on the well-manicured lawns of Downton Abbey, his aristocratic future father-in-law, Robert Crawley fifth earl of Grantham had brought the day's hitherto relaxed proceedings to an abrupt halt and in a clipped, precise, measured tone had announced to one and all that Great Britain was now at war with Germany.

"_I don't suppose..." _

At this particular remembrance, Tom chuckled softly to himself, drawing a curious look from one of the nervous young soldiers kneeling beside him behind the barricade. Close to, he could see the droplets of sweat beading both the boy's brow and upper lip; saw him swallow hard. Why, he looked scarcely old enough to be even shaving let alone in uniform and fighting for his country. Jaysus! In perhaps little more than a dozen or so years it could be Danny kneeling there beside him. At the very thought of that frightening prospect, Tom's heart gave a sudden lurch. At home in Blackrock, safe and sound, well out of harm's way, Sybil and their children would thankfully still be sleeping soundly in their beds.

"How old are you, boy?" Tom asked softly.

"Sir?"  
"It doesn't matter". He smiled wanly at the young soldier, trying to convey in his expression some form of wordless reassurance. Then, briefly, he let his mind drift back once more to the distant past.

What was it that he had been going to say to Sybil, before Mrs. Hughes had interrupted him? Little more than a week ago, lying in his arms in their bed after making love, Sybil had taxed him with that very question. Tom's brows knitted, his forehead furrowed. He had no idea; none whatsoever. After all it had been a lifetime ago, before the world went mad and toppled over the precipice and into a world war. Even so, the particular memory caused Tom to permit himself the luxury of a brief, ironic smile. That earnest, softly spoken Irish chauffeur and the pretty, aristocratic young girl in the pale sprig print muslin dress were now as much a part of history as the long dead heir to the now defunct throne of the vanished Austro-Hungarian Empire.

For this was not 1914.

The river was not the Miljacka.

This was not the Latin Bridge.

This was not Sarajevo the capital of what then had been the distant province of Bosnia-Herzegovina, at the time part of the sprawling territories of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

On this particular summer's morn, there were no carefree, cheering, smiling, flag waving crowds as there had been then lining the banks of the Miljacka river, crowding in their thousands into Sarajevo, to mark the State Visit of the Heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, singularly** unaware **of course of what was about to happen.

For this was 1922.

The river was the Liffey.

This was the Richmond Bridge.

This was Dublin, the capital city of the newly created Irish Free State.

And, at this early hour, sick of war, ashen, pale-faced, with heads bowed and now scurrying for whatever cover they could find, the handful of people here in Dublin, down by the waters of the Liffey, were only too **well** **aware **of what was about to occur.

Tom looked at his watch; it was still barely 4am in the morning but even in the translucent pearl grey light of early dawn, across the Liffey the domed bulk of The Four Courts loomed large.

Of course, Tom knew the richly decorated interior of the building well; as a journalist he had attended and covered trials here on several occasions over the past couple of years. Begun in 1786 and completed in 1802 the warren of buildings had once housed the four courts of Chancery, the King's Bench, the Exchequer and the Common Pleas, by now merged into the High Court of Ireland. With its enormous central dome sited above a great circular hall, its front portico composed of six soaring Corinthian columns, the ornate pediment above topped by a carved statue of Moses on its apex, flanked by others representing Justice, Mercy, Wisdom and Authority and its ornate flanking wings, notwithstanding the fact it had been built under British rule, Tom would have been the first to admit that it was truly magnificent.

Crouching close to the position held by the National Army here on Winetavern Street at the southern end of Richmond Bridge, there would, thought Tom, shortly be nothing remotely resembling justice, mercy or wisdom. In the circumstances, it would, he reflected, have been more apt had the carved statues atop the front portico of the Four Courts been those of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Famine and Death.

For, since April of this year, along with several other locations, including the grim edifice that was Kilmainham Gaol and where Peadar had breathed his last, the immense complex of buildings over there on the north bank of the River Liffey had been occupied by Republican forces led by Rory o'Connor opposed to the terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty.

Thereafter, here in Dublin, over the last couple of months, an uneasy stalemate had prevailed, with the forces of the new National Army which remained loyal to the fledgling government of the Free State making no attempt to dislodge the Republicans from the several locations here in the city which they had first seized and then heavily fortified, while both sides waited to see whether or not the elections to the Dáil would bring an end to the impasse.

However, in this regard, the General Election which had been held here in the Free State this very month, had achieved precisely nothing. For despite the pro-Treaty Sinn Fein winning the largest number of votes, Ireland remained bitterly and hopelessly divided between those who supported and those who opposed the terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty; a division which continued to manifest itself in the Dáil, in the neophyte National Army, in Dublin, in Cork and in all the towns and villages scattered up and down the length and breadth of the country. Something had to give and now it had with an incident that had occurred but a few days ago, not here in Dublin but over in London, on the doorstep of an elegant town house in fashionable Eaton Place.

From his vantage point, Tom could easily make out the equally hastily erected improvised fortifications surrounding the Four Courts on the other side of the river: the entanglements of barbed wire, the sandbags, the trenches, along with the barricaded doors and windows.

"_Good people are dying, are going to die, on both sides,Tom"_.

Sybil had spoken more or less those self same words to him on that summer morning when, two years ago, in June 1920, he had told her of his intention to go south, to Cork, to cover for the Indy, what was happening down there in Munster in the far south of Ireland during the War of Independence, what others were now calling the Tan War, in recognition of the brutality and lawlessness of the Black and Tans.

At the thought of darling Sybil, Tom sighed heavily. He had never told her what they had done to him while he and the others were being held in that abandoned, isolated police barracks in County Cork; could not bring himself to talk of **that**, not even to her, **especially** not to her. But despite his unwillingness to speak of the cruelties he had suffered, he sensed that somehow Sybil knew all the same. She had been so loving, so patient, so understanding; had calmed and soothed him when he had awoken, soaked in sweat, terrified, in the fastness of the night, believing himself once again to be in the clutches of the Tans.

"There are things to tell me, my darling, aren't there?" she had asked of him one morning after his nightmares had been particularly vivid. But even though he knew Sybil spoke the plain, simple truth, lying there in her arms, safe from all harm, Tom could not bring himself to recount what had happened; not then, not now, perhaps not ever. Gradually though, as time passed, the painful memories he carried with him had begun to fade, although for now they still lurked there in the darkest, deepest recesses of his mind waiting to pounce. But Tom knew only too well that it did not do to dwell on the past. And yet, paradoxically, on this bright June morning, whether or not he wished it thus, it was to the past that he found himself returning again and again.

Six years ago, in 1916, during the Easter Rising, a large swathe of the centre of Dublin had been destroyed and laid waste when, in order to flush the Irish rebels out of the General Post Office and other locations which they had occupied, the British Army resorted to the use of heavy artillery here in the very heart of the city. The loss of life on both sides had been appalling and the damage widespread. And now, it seemed history was about to repeat itself. Did we, Tom wondered, never, ever learn from our past mistakes? Obviously not.

The sound of a motor now approaching the barricade from the other end of the street and at speed caused Tom to turn his head. He watched impassively as, brakes squealing, the heavy Crossley staff car pulled to a sudden stand close to the buildings on the west side of the street and also well out of rifle range. The rear doors opened and several officers in the uniform of the new National Army clambered out. Keeping low and in the lee of the neighbouring premises, cautiously, they made their way along the street, over to the barricade, among their number a tall man who, on seeing Tom, raised his right hand in friendly salutation.

For his part, Michael Collins, Commander-in-Chief of the newly formed Irish National Army would have liked very much to know what it was that Tom Branson was thinking during this silent sunrise vigil down by the Liffey on the eve of battle. On reflection, no, that wasn't strictly true. Collins knew perfectly well what Tom would be thinking. Tommy who was one of the few truly decent men he had met and who was both blessed and cursed with a conscience as broad and deep as the Liffey. Collins now smiled; strode briskly over to where Tom was now standing and touched the brim of his cap with his swagger stick.

"My, my, Tommy, you're up early for sure".

"You too, Michael. A fine pair of insomniacs, the two of us". Tom smiled his familiar lopsided grin.

Collins nodded, watched impassively as Tom turned back to survey, with seeming indifference, the scene of military preparations now being made for the launching of a direct military assault on the Four Courts.

"Tommy, I do want you to know, I have no choice in this".

"Michael, there's always a choice. Surely... it doesn't have to come to this. Hasn't there been enough killing already?"

So this was how it was going to be. Collins grimaced. He should have guessed.

"You told me once, Tommy, that you believed sometimes hard sacrifices have to be made, for a life that's worth living".

Tom nodded.

"So I did, once. But not any more".

"I know that the Treaty isn't perfect, Tommy; far from it. But it's a beginning and given time, with good will on all sides we can work towards our dream of achieving a fully independent Ireland".

"Do you honestly believe that is possible?"  
"I **have** to believe it, Tommy. With the signing of the Treaty, Ireland now has a chance to achieve what she's been waiting for for nearly seven hundred years. You can see that for sure? I know others do too, although I know equally well that just as many don't; at least for now. As to whether I myself will live long enough to see it all come to pass..." Collins sadly shook his head.

"You don't really think..."  
"That in accepting the terms we were offered over there in London, I've signed my own death warrant? For sure". Collins nodded and now pointed in the direction of the Four Courts. "Those hotheads holed up in there will never forgive me for agreeing to what I did. Any of it. Even de Valera called me a traitor. And there are many others in the Dáil and in the army, men I once led, who think I betrayed the republic and sold us all out to the British!"

Tom looked utterly appalled; recalled to mind what Sybil had said several months ago, that in being sent to London to lead the peace negotiations with the British, Collins had been set up.

"And what about Wilson? Did you know anything about it?"

A matter of days ago, Sir Henry Wilson, one of the most senior staff officers of the British Army during the Great War and the Unionist MP for North Down in the new Parliament of Northern Ireland, who had urged strongly the introduction of martial law in Ireland during the War of Independence, who had been an outspoken critic of the Anglo-Irish Truce, who thought the Treaty to have been "a shameful and cowardly surrender to the pistol", had been shot dead outside his home in London.

There were rumours circulating, nothing more, that Collins had sanctioned the shooting; that Wilson had been advocating reorganising British military forces and the police in Northern Ireland so as to be in a position to launch an invasion of the Free State from there. Whether any of this was indeed true was anybody's guess but with what had happened recently along the new border with the north, with repeated clashes between forces loyal to the Free State and those of the British administration of Northern Ireland, anything was possible.

"No, of course not! Whatever do you take me for?" Collins who had moved several paces away to get a better view of the Four Courts now swung back on his heel. Seeing the angry look upon Collins' face, Tom took a step backwards.

"Only I did hear..."  
"Hear what, Tommy? Why on earth should I have sanctioned killing Wilson? Tell me that! I hated the man for sure but to provoke the British and give them an excuse to send their troops back into Ireland? Never! And if that were to happen, what then? Why, it would sound the death knell for each and every one of us in favour of the Treaty!"

Tom nodded.

"What you're saying, Michael, makes perfect sense. All the same I..."

"Don't ever forget, Tommy, with what you could have said on oath about what the Tans did down there in County Cork and all the rest of it, why if it had been left up to that bastard Churchill, until all of this had been settled, you would have been left rotting in Dartmoor gaol! **I** got you out of there Tommy. **I **did that! No-one else. Remember? So I'd be appreciating your support in this for sure". Collins jabbed Tom's chest with his gloved forefinger.

"No, I haven't forgotten what you did for me," said Tom quietly. After all, how could I?"

Collins nodded. His expression softened. He looked bone weary as well he might, given the responsibilities which had been heaped upon him.

"Just what is the feckin' alternative? You tell me that! Why, if bloody Churchill and others like him over there in London have their way, then mark my words, Tommy, the British army will be back here in Ireland and marching past the Column on Sackville Street! You know what that bastard Lloyd George said, that if we failed to accept the Treaty he would launch "an immediate and terrible war" here in Ireland. Don't you be forgetting that!"

"I'm not," said Tom brokenly.

He had always detested violence and with what he had seen and suffered recently, he now abhorred it all the more with something akin to a vengeance.

"All the same, Michael, for sure I don't see why those occupying the courts can't be given another chance. Sweet Blood of Christ, you're about to give the order to use British artillery on our own damned people!"

Seeing how crestfallen he looked, Collins relented somewhat, placed his hands gently on Tom's shoulders.

"I've given them every opportunity to leave. You know Arthur Griffith wanted them out of there as soon as they occupied the building back in April but for the last two months I've resisted all calls to shift them by force. And now they've gone and kidnapped O'Connell. Well, they've had their chance. I only wish I had mine. Don't you understand, Tommy, what you spoke of just now... of a price having to be paid? Well this is the price that **has** to be paid... to stop all that happening. Quid pro quo. Churchill expects us to maintain order and to enforce the terms of the Treaty. Unless the occupation of the Four Courts is brought to an immediate end, the British Government will regard the Treaty as having been violated and will resume 'full liberty of action'. Churchill's words, not mine. Can't you see, my hands are tied!"

But in his heart Collins knew too that his impassioned plea would cut no ice with Tommy Branson; unable to meet Tom's guileless gaze, the Big Fellow, as Collins was affectionately known, a nickname acquired long ago in childhood and continued into his adult life, now turned away from him so that, Tom supposed, in the dim grey light of dawn, shaded by the peak of his military cap, he could not see the other's face.

Collins nodded curtly to the officer in charge of the huge 18-pounder gun. In turn, having ordered that a slight adjustment be made in the elevation of the long, polished steel barrel pointing directly at the buildings across the river, the young officer likewise nodded, this time to the group of six gunners kneeling beside the massive artillery piece. He raised his right arm quickly and then brought it down just as swiftly.

"Fire!"

There came a deafening, ear-splitting roar, followed by a piercing scream; the massive gun shook and recoiled violently as the first high explosive shell soared away across the grey waters of the river. A minute or so later and it hit the elegant, imposing granite façade of the mass of buildings opposite sending up a billowing cloud of fragments of shattered masonry, choking dust, black smoke and a sheet of orange flame.

The assault on the Four Courts had commenced, the battle of Dublin had begun and with it, the Irish Civil War.

**Author's Note:**

Following the murder of Sir Henry Wilson in London, the government of the nascent Irish Free State was left with little choice but to try and bring a speedy end to the occupation of the Four Courts in Dublin. Had they not done so, at that time there was every prospect of military intervention by the British followed by the re-occupation of the south of Ireland.

On the available evidence, it seems highly unlikely that Michael Collins sanctioned or played any part in the murder of Sir Henry Wilson.

The British government did indeed loan the Irish National Army several artillery pieces for the assault on the Four Courts.

Arthur Griffith (1872-1922) President of Dáil Éireann January-August 1922 and leader of the Irish delegation which had attended the peace negotiations in London which led to the Anglo-Irish Treaty.

At this time, JJ "Ginger" O'Connell (1887-1944) was Deputy Chief of Staff of the new Irish National Army.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The Letter

**Skerries Estate, County Cork, Ireland, January 1921.**

In the chaos which ensued in the immediate aftermath of the disastrous IRA raid at the Imperial Hotel on South Mall in Cork, Fergal eventually made it safely back out to the farm and, in the days and weeks which followed, wisely, he lay low; busying himself instead with his usual round of daily chores and stayed close to home - something which, of course, pleased his worried mother no end. With his former comrades in arms in the local IRA now either dead or else fled and with the worsening security situation here down in County Cork, there was little chance of the British soldiers coming after him; so equally also, very little likelihood of him being arrested. Compared to some, in fact, compared to most in the organisation, Fergal himself was small fry.

Hereabouts, the disappearance of the journalist from Dublin, Miss Maeve's cousin, from up at the Big House, the one with the motorbike and who, it transpired somewhat later had been killed during the burning of Cork, at the time had attracted some local attention. However, since the little family then living at Skerries had kept themselves very much to themselves and with no servants to impart gossip from the Big House to those down in the village, his seemingly inexplicable disappearance, for all that the rozzers had come making a nuisance of themselves bothering people with their enquiries, was nothing more than a nine days' wonder; most in the neighbourhood of both Skerries and Kinsale were far too busy getting on with their own lives, trying in this winter of 1921 simply to keep body and soul together.

Then had come the burning of the Big House.

On the night it had occurred, the ensuing conflagration had lit up the blackness of the sky so much so that it might just as well have been midday instead of shortly after nine o'clock on a cold, dark, wet January evening. After Skerries had been fired, once word had spread, of what was happening, despite the incessant rain, along with a group of other locals, Fergal had stood on the wide sweep of overgrown lawn at the front of the house and watched silently and impassively as the mansion swiftly became an inferno of roaring flames.

There had never been the slightest chance of it being saved; the telephone line to Skerries had been cut in advance of the fire being started and even it that had not been so and the alarm had been duly raised, by the time the fire brigade could have reached here from Cork it would have been too late to save the house. Both as landlords and as employers, the Bransons had not been liked and few, if any, save perhaps young Fergal himself and for reasons which, at the time, he did not then fully comprehend, had mourned the destruction of Skerries House.

From his vantage point, standing there on the long neglected lawn in both the pouring rain and in the fiery, flame-shot darkness, Fergal had witnessed also the arrival of the motor as it puttered up the drive and drew to a sudden stop at a decidedly safe and prudent distance from the burning house; saw too the English woman, the dark haired young wife of the missing journalist with her little boy cradled tightly in her arms being led from the old gardener's cottage and being helped into the motor; saw it driving away. Fergal was glad about that; he bore them no ill-will; at least, not then.

The morning after the fire, Fergal had bicycled over to the house to see what, if anything might be salvaged from the still smouldering ruins. In the cold grey light of day, the blackened, gaunt walls presented a sorry sight; the fire had raged with such an intensity that it had gutted the mansion entirely, in the process bringing down the roof. And so, for Fergal, as indeed for several others in the neighbourhood and who had the same thought as himself, of picking over the bleached bones of Skerries House, his journey proved singularly fruitless.

And then, had come the sad news of the unexpected death of Miss Maeve, the report of which in the Cork Constitution had been singularly lacking in detail; referring only to "a tragic accident which occurred at the Imperial Hotel". Not that this gave Fergal any great pause for concern, if indeed any at all; he did not connect her death with the bungled IRA raid at the same place on the same date and in which he himself had been involved - why should he? And, after all, he had not, on hearing his voice, heard her scream his name just before she had run headlong and precipitously out onto the landing of the hotel. Only to be instantly cut down in a murderous hail of bullets fired at close quarters from the staircase by the Black and Tans, one of whom afterwards and in cold blood, had murdered the very man Maeve was engaged to but did not love: Captain Miles Stathum.

Later that same month, her funeral had taken place; on a cold, drear, overcast and windy day, Given who both Miss Maeve and her family had once been hereabouts, it was a paltry, shabby little affair with but a scattering of mourners from Cork, and none of those present being relatives. Although he knew not why, Miss Maeve had always been very good to him and so Fergal felt himself duty bound to attend the sad obsequies; his fair hair neatly combed and wearing the new suit she had bought him last Christmas.

He had stood apart from all those others present, had he but know it much as Tom had done on the day of Lavinia Swire's funeral at Downton. Keeping out of sight, standing beneath the trees on the edge of the little wood that lay to one side of the neglected burial ground beside the forlorn chapel at Skerries, it was from here, holding his cap respectfully in his hands, that young Fergal Ryan watched quietly and in silence as Miss Maeve Branson was finally laid to rest.

And with this sad event, itself presaged by the burning of the Big House, an era here at Skerries could truly be said to have finally ended.

* * *

**Ryan's Farm, former Skerries Estate, County Cork, Ireland, April 1921.**

Letters were but seldom delivered to the farm belonging to the Ryans and if the truth be told, hardly ever. The reason was simple enough. With the exception of several cousins who long since had emigrated to the wide open plains of Nebraska in the United States during the Californian Gold Rush, all the other members of the Ryan family lived close by; the furthest being Uncle Declan, a fisherman, who with his wife and their ever growing number of children, lived over in Clonakilty, down on the coast, more than thirty miles away. So, when, several months later, on a bright April morning, young Harry Kennedy, the local postman, bicycled slowly into the muddy yard of the farm with a letter post marked from Cork and addressed to Mr. Fergal Ryan, the occurrence itself was so singular as to mark the day apart from all the others; a proverbial red letter day indeed.

Moments later, within the kitchen of the farmhouse, watched by his equally bemused father and mother, a decidedly mystified Fergal had at once torn open the letter and hastily scanned its contents. It was, he announced, from a firm of solicitors, on Patrick Street over in Cork, desiring his attendance at their offices where he was assured, that he would:

_"... learn something to your advantage"_.

* * *

**Fitzmaurice, Fitzmaurice and Simmonds, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, Patrick Street, Cork, Ireland, April 1921.**

The battered black strong box, bearing on its lid in painted white letters the faded legend _"Skerries Estate"_, sat on the floor beside him; the contents of which, neatly ordered, now lay atop Mr Fitzmaurice's desk. The old solicitor glanced at the grandfather clock which stood in the corner of the room and then took out his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. There were many things in this life of which he did not approve and of these unpunctuality was one. The clock had now struck two. Mr. Fitzmaurice snapped shut his watch, thrust it firmly back into the pocket of his waistcoat and scowled. A moment later and there came a timid knock at the door.

"Yes," he barked imperiously.

The door opened cautiously and Fitzmaurice's weasel-faced clerk, Scrips, put his head nervously around the corner.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Fitzmaurice, sir. But there's a young gent asking to see you. By the name of Ryan. Been loitering outside in the street for nearly half an hour, he has. Says he has an appointment to see you?"  
"And so... ahem... he does. Well? Don't...ahem... just stand there boy! Show him in!" exclaimed the old solicitor irritably. Another of Mr. Fitzmaurice's many and varied dislikes was incompetence and here, young Scrips quite took the biscuit. Why he kept him on, was a mystery, even to Mr. Fitzmaurice. Perhaps it was out of some misguided sense of brotherly duty to his dear departed sister, Alice; Archie Scrips was Mr. Fitzmaurice's nephew, his one and only, something for which the elderly, irascible solicitor was both truly and eternally ever grateful.

* * *

"Ahem!" Mr. Fitzmaurice sat back in his capacious, comfortable chair, pursed his lips and both figuratively and literally looked intently down his nose at Fergal, observing him closely through his gold rimmed pince-nez. Yes, the resemblance to Miss Maeve was quite striking and there for anyone who cared to see; startling really and he was rather surprised that it had not been noticed long ere since; not by him of course. After all, seated before him now was the kind of person who normally Mr. Fitzmaurice would not deign to even acknowledge ever existed. And, the more he looked, the more, thought Mr. Fitzmaurice, did the young man opposite, remind him of someone else whom he had once encountered in his professional capacity but, try as he might, for the life of him he could not think who it might have been.

"So, ahem, the town house situate on North Mall, here in Cork, the property, ahem, of the late Miss Maeve Branson, ahem, with all its contents, its outbuildings and its appurtenances, ahem, willed to her by her late father, ahem, is, ahem, in accordance with the terms of her last will, ahem, bequeathed to, ahem, you, young man".

Fergal said nothing; Mr. Fitzmaurice thought him to be exceedingly ungrateful.

Instead, Fergal sat nervously twisting the brim of his cap, gazing around the dark panelled room, at the furnishings, at the regimented leather bound volumes lining the numerous shelves. None of this made any sense; none whatsoever and so now, he said so.

"But why me? I don't understand".

Mr. Fitzmaurice spread his hands.

"Life, young man, ahem, is full of, ahem, mysteries and surprises," he offered wearily.

This was all so decidedly tiresome. How was it, Mr. Fitzmaurice wondered speculatively, had things come down to this? Skerries House burned to the ground and its once extensive estate, reduced to a handful of acres; even less since the farms had been sold in accordance with the wishes of that blasted journalist who, some months earlier, had been killed here in this very city in the burning of Cork. An estate which had belonged to the Bransons for centuries, its affairs, at least from a legal standpoint having been Mr. Fitzmaurice's own private concern for upwards of more than forty years; now willed away to someone he considered to be an illiterate, witless farm boy. Mr. Fitzmaurice shook his head in disbelief. A world turned upside down. "Perhaps this, ahem... will, ahem..."

The elderly solicitor now picked up a long white envelope from off his desk and held it out to Fergal. Mr Fitzmaurice had no intention of moving from his comfortable chair, certainly not for this cheeky young whipper snapper. So, with the solicitor's arms, like the rest of him, being both podgy and short, Fergal was obliged to stand up to take from Mr. Fitzmaurice the letter which he now proffered. That done, he sat down heavily once again in his chair.

"It is from Miss Maeve...ahem, and as you see, ahem, addressed... ahem... to you".

Fergal studied the envelope intently. It was clearly addressed to him, care of this firm of solicitors here on Patrick Street.

"You've read it?" he asked at length.  
"No, certainly not!" snapped Mr. Fitzmaurice. He sounded appalled and his annoyance was such that temporarily it overcame his stammer. "If you look, young man, you will see that the seal is intact. It has not been opened". That this impertinent, insolent youngster should think that he would read the private correspondence of a late client was not to be suffered.  
"Then how do you..."  
"I... ahem... recognise... ahem... her script".

"Her script?" The young man sounded puzzled.

Mr. Fitzmaurice sighed; said, he thought, with great forbearance:  
"Her hand... ahem... her writing".

Fergal tore open the envelope and began slowly to read the letter contained within. At the very first words, his brow puckered in disbelief.

"_My dearest, darling boy..._

The silence in the room lengthened as, watched by Mr. Fitzmaurice, mystified, Fergal read on.

* * *

**The Four Courts, Inns Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State, midday, Friday 30th June 1922.**

Within what, until the siege, had hitherto been the magnificent Four Courts, everything was a now a mass of roaring, searing flames. Thick black smoke was billowing through the buildings, making it difficult to breathe, let alone see what was happening, albeit the defenders had either surrendered or else long since made good their escape. All that was save one...

* * *

**The Four Courts, Inns Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State, 6am Saturday 1st July 1922.**

Here, on the north bank of the Liffey, having parked the motor out of sight just off Chancery Street, putting to good use the knowledge he had gained from the time he had spent as a boy living rough on the streets of Dublin, Tom now began weaving his way through the rabbit warren of decaying tenements.

Despite the fact that there had been a great deal of damage done to the streets surrounding the Four Courts, it seemed that some local residents hereabouts would not allow anything, not even the constant artillery barrages, the explosions and the rifle fire of the last three days to come between them and a pair of clean sheets. Shaking his head in disbelief at the incongruous sight that had greeted him, the grimy, flat fronts of many of the squalid houses festooned with fresh washing, hanging from windows and draped from poles, drying in the bright sunshine, Tom now hurried on.

Dodging hither and thither, this way and that, his route took him through a labyrinth of dark alleyways, along a succession of foetid, narrow passages and, in the process, eventually achieving what he had intended all along; managing to stay out of sight and thus avoid being stopped at the several check points and barricades established and manned by the ever vigilant soldiers of the new National Army.

Well pleased with himself and with his intended goal at last in view, having deftly also avoided the watchful eyes of those members of the Dublin Fire Brigade who were still in evidence and in the process of damping down the fire-ravaged buildings, hauling himself up and clambering through what had once been a window, knowing he was taking something of a risk, Tom dropped cautiously down inside.

He paused and looked on in utter disbelief at the scene which now greeted him; one of total devastation. It was, he reflected grudgingly, little short of a miracle that those defending the Four Courts, many of them who had been little more than young lads, had managed to hold out here for as long as they had.

For, despite having been in occupation of the buildings for some three months, from having yesterday questioned several of the survivors who had managed to escape being apprehended by soldiers of the National Army, Tom had learned that despite what he had observed from the other side of the Liffey, many of the windows of the Four Courts had been left unprotected. Thereafter, with few communications trenches having been dug, once the National Army had begun its assault in earnest, it had proved well nigh impossible for the defenders to move about in safety. And, when, on the orders of the National Army, the Post Office authorities had cut the external telephone wires, communication between the different parts of the court buildings had been achievable only by the defenders risking their lives and braving a hail of bullets and high explosive shells to deliver messages on foot.

The weakest point in the defences, Tom learned, had been on the north west side which had come under sustained fire from the Four Courts Hotel and from National Army positions on Church Street and the Bridewell, as well as coming under sustained artillery fire from Haymarket. Even so, with the Free Staters, the soldiers of the new National Army, unwilling to launch an all-out assault without continuing artillery support and with munitions running short, this had given the defenders a short breathing space.

However, with more shells eventually being made available, there was no doubt of the final outcome. With soldiers from the National Army at last penetrating the makeshift defences, having already announced that they would surrender, within the broken buildings of the Four Courts, even with the Free Staters swarming in through the shattered walls, at midday yesterday, on Friday 30th June, the Republican defenders had taken the decision to explode the massive mine which they had laid. The resultant explosion had been truly deafening, shaking buildings nearby to their very foundations and producing an enormous cloud of smoke which billowed forth across the city, bringing to an explosive end the three day siege of the Four Courts here in Dublin beside the grey waters of the River Liffey. And for the crowds gathered on the O'Connell Bridge and watching from a safe distance, through the ensuing murk, moments later, the sharper eyed among them now glimpsed, albeit faintly, a tattered white flag had been raised over the burning buildings.

Of course, if Sybil ever found out what he had done, he knew he would never hear the last of it. Maybe it was the washing he had seen earlier, drying in the early morning sunshine on Chancery Street which now put him in mind of the heartfelt words she had uttered to him earlier in the year when, one evening, early in February of this same year, they had a blistering row and which had arisen out of Tom's intention to head north, up to the new border with Northern Ireland. Once there he was to cover what had happened at Clones in County Monaghan, where had occurred an incident so serious that it had threatened to wreck the Anglo-Irish Treaty and which had prompted the British government to suspend withdrawing any more troops from the Free State.

* * *

**Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, February 1922.**

On this cold February evening, Tom had arrived home somewhat later than usual and it was that which had probably been the start of it; added to which Saiorse was teething and having a terrible time, unlike Danny, who when they had come through, had happily suffered very little trouble with the cutting of his baby teeth.

"Tom, darling where on earth have you been?"

Tonight, their kiss was perfunctory; little more.

"Something, er, came up". Although perhaps it would have been better for him if he had, Tom forbore to mention the explosion which had occurred by the side of the railway line just south of Sandymount and which had delayed his train; it would only cause Sybil to worry about him even more than she did.

With Saiorse in her arms, Sybil stood in silence in the narrow hallway and watched impassively as Tom took off his cap and gloves and then hung up his overcoat.

"It always does" came her matter-of-fact reply.

"Sorry!"

"Da!"

On hearing both the front door and his father's voice, little Danny had run pell-mell out from the kitchen straight into the tiled hallway. Sweeping the little boy up into his arms, Tom smothered him with kisses.

"Couldn't you have telephoned?" Their eyes met as he kissed the top of Saiorse's head.  
"Darlin', I did. No reply".

"Hm!" Sybil sounded thoroughly unconvinced.

"There, there, darling. Hush, now". She walked ahead of Tom down the hallway, into the warmth of the kitchen where, resting Saiorse against her shoulder, having stirred the stew bubbling in the pan, Sybil sat down heavily on the Windsor chair beside the range. With Danny on his lap, Tom sat opposite her.

"Did you do this?" He smiled happily down at his young son who had thrust a crumpled drawing into his hands. Danny grinned.

"It's a train, Da!"  
"So I can see. Very good!"

Tom looked up from studying Danny's drawing; wondered idly if in later years it would transpire that the little boy had inherited his mother's talent for sketching.

"Bad day, love?"  
"What do you think?" Sybil sighed heavily. "Honestly, Tom, what with Saiorse teething and with that Eileen, why it's like having three children in the house, not two! I'd be far better off managing on my own!"

Aged sixteen, cheerful and willing but, it must be admitted, none too bright, Eileen was a young girl who, seeking work, had moved from Tralee to Dublin to live with her married cousin and whom, despite Sybil's initial opposition to the very idea, insisting that she could perfectly manage on her own thank you very much, something which Tom would no longer countenance, the Bransons had engaged to help with a variety of domestic tasks about the house.

After the children had been put to bed, with Tom reading_ The Tale of Tom Kitten_ by Beatrix Potter to little Danny while Sybil attempted - eventually successfully - to try and settle darling Saiorse, they had gone downstairs to the kitchen to eat their supper during which, Tom had broached the subject of his forthcoming trip north. This had immediately received a frosty reception from Sybil, with the temperature in the hitherto warm and homely kitchen plummeting like the proverbial stone; so much so that in but a matter of minutes it not only matched that outside but was in fact, probably colder by several degrees and with the result, that the latter part of their meal had been eaten in almost complete silence.

With supper over, while Tom washed up, Sybil busied herself taking pillowcases from out of the steaming copper with a pair of wooden tongs and putting them twice through the mangle. Standing at the Belfast, having finished washing the dishes, unwisely, Tom now ventured to raise again the matter of his journey north.

"Darlin', we've been through all of this before. It's my job! I'm a journalist, remember? It's what I do". Tom ran his damp fingers through his hair; a sure sign that he was upset. He so hated to see Sybil upset too; especially when he knew he himself to be the cause of her distress.

"Do you think I don't know that! Tom, there are men younger than you working at the Independent. You've said so yourself. There's... Connor and there's... Whelan for a start. Both of them unmarried and without the responsibilities of a family. Let one of them go".

"Sybil, darlin', Harrington asked specially that I cover this story. He trusts me. Nothing will happen to me. I promise". Tom smiled his familiar lop-sided grin but for once it seemed not to have the desired effect.

Having hung the pillowcases over the wooden airer, Sybil pulled it smartly up into position, tying the cord off over the cleat.

"Don't make me promises you know you can't keep. Tom".

"I'm not!"  
"Yes you are!"

"Sybil, I have to do my job".

"Even at the risk of putting yourself in danger all over again?"

With hot tears coursing down her cheeks, wiping her hands on her apron, angrily pushing him away, Sybil moved swiftly out of reach, round to the other side of the kitchen table.

Taking the sad iron from off the range she now began ironing a pile of laundry, taking out her heartfelt fears and frustrations on a succession of Tom's shirts; thump, noting here a missing button, thump, a frayed hem, thump. Honestly, while Tom always looked very presentable, she made sure of that, some of his shirts, thump, this one in particular, thump, were almost threadbare. It was his birthday soon, thump; a visit to Kennedy and McSharry's on Westmoreland Street, thump, was clearly in order.

Arms folded, leaning against the kitchen door, silently Tom stood watching his wife. The rhythmic sound of the iron hitting the table had an almost hypnotic quality about it.

Thump.

"Darlin',"

Thump.

"I have responsibilities..." he began again; realised with his words he had blundered. What was worse, was the fact that ironing was something Sybil detested and was guaranteed to put her in a bad mood and she was in one now.

Thump.

"**Responsibilities**?" Sybil almost spat the word. "Really? And just what about your responsibilities to us, to the children, to me? I won't have it, Tom! I tell you! I won't!"

Thump.

With the heat from the range and the steam rising from the copper, her face flushed, Sybil slammed down the iron; stood tightly gripping the edge of the kitchen table, staring out of the window at the bare, black branches of the storm tossed trees in the garden at the rear of their house on Idrone Terrace. Somehow, a tendril of her dark hair had escaped from the tight confines of the headscarf she was wearing. Angrily she brushed it back with her fingers.

"Sybil..." With tears now welling in his eyes, Tom moved towards her. "Love, I don't want to argue. I didn't mean that I ..."

"**Don't**! Will you for once just listen! When you vanished, you have no idea what I went through... those weeks, months, without you. I can't Tom... I won't go through all of that again! Not now. Not ever!"

Mingling with the smell of soap suds, the unmistakable reek of burning filled the air. Sybil sniffed several times, looked about her before glancing down at the table, where she finally located its source. There was a large scorch mark on the back of Tom's freshly laundered shirt.

"Jaysus, will you look at what I've gone and done! Feckin hell!"

At his wife's untroubled use of Irish invective, Tom's eyebrows shot up. He would not take all of the blame – or should that be credit - as most of the choicest words, Sybil herself had learned whilst on duty at the Coombe. He wondered if, by some stroke of magic, his parents-in-law could be transported here from Downton to witness their youngest daughter - the former Lady Sybil Crawley – not only ironing but also swearing like a Dublin fishwife. The image that conjured up was so indescribably funny that it made Tom chuckle and helped defuse the mounting tension.

"Sybil, darlin', that was my favourite shirt!"

"What, **this**? Oh, Tom, really! It's only fit for washing the floor".

She held up the scorched, decidedly threadbare garment for their mutual inspection.

"Well, it is... **now**!" he grumbled good-naturedly. Sybil saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

Her own followed suit.

A moment later, laughter overcame them both and they were in each other's arms, the one apologising to the other.  
"And, if you... think... you... can... do... any... better, do... your... own... bloody... ironing..., Mr. Branson!" Sybil managed to stammer between their deepening, ever lengthening kisses.

Nonetheless, Sybil had meant every word of what she had said and, lying awake in their bed later that night, Tom knew that to be the case. Both she and the children were his world and he would never do anything to threaten that.

Even so, lying here in the darkness, his arms around Sybil and with their two children sleeping soundly, Saiorse in her cot at the foot of their bed and Danny in his own room just along the passage, Tom knew equally well that he loved his job too; decided there must be some way of reconciling the very different and conflicting sides of his life. However, he was no nearer to reaching a decision as to how that might best be achieved when at length he drifted off to sleep and the next thing he knew it was dawn and the pale sunlight of a winter's morn was spilling in through the curtained window of their bedroom.

* * *

**The Four Courts, Inns Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State, 6.15am, Saturday 1st July 1922.**

Yesterday's massive explosion had played its part in much of the destruction which Tom now encountered; helping to bring down the enormous central copper dome and which had been such an impressive feature of the courts. As a result, the buildings were now roofless, gutted to the bare walls. Here within the still smoking ruins, there lay an enormous mass of debris; twisted iron work, fallen masonry, smashed columns, smoke-blackened timbers and broken glass, along with charred fragments of paper and vellum, these last being all that remained of a thousand years of public records and which had been stored here at the Public Record Office in the west wing of the building.

Mixed with the unmistakable smell of cordite, the stench of burning hung heavy in the bright morning air as, carefully,Tom cautiously picked his way slowly through the wreckage of the burnt out buildings, noting down as he went what he saw. About him, spent casings of bullets, spilled sandbags, entanglements of barbed wire, discarded ammunition belts, the bent barrels and smashed stocks of rifles - destroyed by the erstwhile defenders before the attackers broke through so as to ensure they did not fall into the hands of the Free Staters - blood-stained bandages and scraps of clothing, littered the ground, along with fragments of the ornate interior: smashed and broken statues of past members of the Irish legal establishment, fragments of decorative plasterwork and shattered pillars.

And yet, for all the terrible destruction which had been wrought during the bombardment and the siege, despite the intensity of the fire, despite the massive explosion, here and there, surprisingly, fragments of the magnificent buildings yet remained intact; completely undamaged. An elegant sash window, its glazing smoke blackened but for all that entire, a beautiful panelled door now leading nowhere but likewise undamaged and here, before him, hanging on the wall, at the end of the vaulted passage in which Tom found himself, a large mirror set within an ornately carved, gilded frame.

What arrested his attention about it first of all, other than the very fact of its miraculous survival, was that the mirror resembled very much the one which once had hung in the hall of Skerries House and which Tom assumed must have perished in the fire which had destroyed the house. Here, however, the heat of the conflagration had done nothing other than slightly craze the surface of the glass so that, as Tom stood and gazed at the mirror it was, as he would have expected, his own image that he now saw staring back at him; or, so he thought.

But then, from somewhere behind him in the darkness and the smoke filled shadows there came the sound of sudden movement and it was with a mounting sense of both disbelief and shock that he realised the face he saw looking back at him from out of the mirror was not his own.

Understandably unnerved,Tom whirled about.

At the same time, close by, a pile of smouldering debris flared into sudden flame, sending shadows coursing up the shattered walls while high above a pile of loose masonry now tottered and then fell with a resounding roar sending down in its wake a choking cascade of dust, smashed stone and broken plaster, sweeping the mirror from off the wall and smashing it to pieces.

The debris shifted for a while, then finally settled; in the eerie silence that now followed, there came the sound of a shot and, at the same time, at home asleep in bed in Blackrock, after a night of troubled dreams, Sybil awoke with a terrified start and screamed.

**Author's Note:**

Now almost forgotten, the bloody incident which occurred at the railway station at Clones, County Monaghan on 11th February 1922, involved a violent confrontation between members of the Ulster Special Constabulary and the Irish Republican Army in which one IRA officer and four Special Constables were killed. Many others, including civilians were injured. Viewpoints vary as to exactly what happened and who was really responsible for what ensued.

Established in 1890, Kennedy and McSharry, whose shop was then located on Westmoreland Street, are Dublin's oldest and finest gentleman's outfitters.

My description of what happened at the Four Courts is based on several sources. The loss of many of Ireland's public records was a totally unnecessary and wanton act of vandalism. There seems little doubt that those responsible were indeed the defenders of the Four Courts who it should be said probably had no idea what it was they were destroying. Fortunately, over the ensuing ninety years many of the losses have been made good as a result of copies and transcripts of the lost documents, made before the fire, having been sourced and gathered together.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

A Summer's Afternoon

**Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, July 1927.**

Treading lithely and quietly like a cat, he had come upon her softly; had done so with deliberate intent after seeing her dozing, knowing that, given the circumstances, she must still be tired after the night shift she had worked at the Coombe. Tom thought she did too much; had told her long ago that she had nothing to prove; either to him or to herself.

Her head bowed, Sybil was sitting quietly, with her back to him, out of the heat of the afternoon sun, beneath the dappled shade of the apple tree at the far end of the garden which lay behind their house on Idrone Terrace; indeed, so quiet was Tom's approach that his wife remained singularly unaware of his presence until the very last minute. Then, as the dark shade of his shadow fell across her, Sybil looked up and, seeing who it was, she smiled warmly.

"Hello!"

"Hello, love!"

Tom grinned, bent down, kissed her; then, having sat down beside her on the seat, he quickly shed his jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat, rolled up his sleeves and pulled off his tie.

"There, that's better, for sure! Jaysus but it's hot! May I?" His face flushed and glistening with sweat,Tom wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, indicating at the same time the jug of lemonade and solitary glass standing before them on the table.

"Of course".

As Tom busied himself pouring a glass of cooling lemonade, Sybil reached forward and grasped the watch he was wearing, turning his wrist so that she could see the time on the dial. A present to Tom from her on his birthday back in the summer of 1921, she had bought the watch as a replacement for the one smashed, irreparably so, by the Black and Tans and which she kept on the night stand beside their bed. On the reverse, Tom's new watch was engraved with the same inscription as the original:

"_Every Waking Minute"_

Her brow furrowed.

"Why, Tom, darling! It's only just after three! You're back very early! Is everything all right at the paper?" She stretched contentedly and yawned widely.

"Is that so very odd? When I have you to come home to, my darlin'? Of course, to be sure. I caught the 2.30. Pleased to see me? Or..." He paused, then grinned broadly. "Maybe you were expecting someone else. Your lover perhaps?"

Sybil laughed. She sighed contentedly; clasped her hands behind her head and stretched out her feet.

"Oh, this **is **nice, isn't it? Well, yes, I was. And, in case you hadn't noticed, yes, he's just arrived!"

"Who has?" Tom whipped round and now glanced back in the direction of the house from whence he had just come.  
"My lover!"

"Where..."  
"**You**, silly!"

Tom flushed scarlet then ducked his head. It amused her that for all his seeming bravado how easily it was she could still manage to embarrass him.

"But how did you manage to..."

"Privilege of rank, darlin'! The art of delegation! In fact, like yous, I'm becoming quite good at it for sure!" He grinned again and then explained exactly what he meant. "That article... the one giving my assessment on de Valera and his party entering the Dáil after the General Election?"

Sybil nodded her head.

"Well, I gave the job of proofing it to Phelan, so giving me the chance to come home early this afternoon... so as to be with my beautiful wife". Seeing her now blush, he laughed again.

"Tom!"

"Children all right?"

Sybil nodded her head.

"Yes, they're fine. Ma's taken them down to the beach".

She saw the immediate look of alarm etched upon his face. Sybil rested her hand gently on his wrist.

"It's all right, Tom. Ma said she feels perfectly fine. In all honesty, I couldn't deny her".

Earlier that same year, over in Clontarf, Ma had suffered a mild heart attack and her own doctor had prescribed complete bed rest. Not that, once she was up and about again, Ma took the slightest notice to make any meaningful attempt to curtail her comings and goings; even when Sybil concurred with what the doctor had told Ma about taking things more easily.

"Well, if you're absolutely sure..."  
"If **I'm** sure? In case you hadn't noticed, darling, your Ma's a very strong-willed woman".

Tom nodded his head in agreement.

"For sure! So they've all gone down to the beach then?"  
Sybil nodded.

"Saiorse said she wanted to look for shells and Danny wanted to go paddling. He's old enough and sensible enough to know what to do if anything should... Anyway, Ma said they wouldn't be long. Only for an hour or so. They should be back soon enough. Ah! Peace and quiet at last. Just the two of us. Well, three, I suppose".

Tom smiled; watched as Sybil now folded her hands neatly and protectively across her belly. "I shall have to tell them soon... at the Coombe I mean. I'm sure this one's another boy". Sybil smiled. Tom thought she looked radiant. Pregnancy suited her. And from the latest letter written to them from Downton and received here but a matter of days ago, it transpired that Mary was expecting another child too; also her third.

Enclosed with Mary's letter had been one from Edith and which, as usual, was full of chatty, breezy news describing some of her latest adventures – a train journey to Damascus, a visit to a Jewish farming settlement on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, further archaeological excavations out in the Near East in both Palestine and Mesopotamia, the delights of Baghdad, her first visit to Jerusalem, made mention of attending a series of lectures in Vienna and ended up by promising that this year she would try her very best and come back to England so as to be at Downton for Christmas.

"Apart from her never-ending series of digs, she seems to be spending quite a bit of time in Vienna," observed Tom.

"Yes, I thought that too," said Sybil.

Tom smiled and, with their fingers intertwined, the two of them sat together in companionable silence. The summer air was heavy with the scent of lavender, roses and new mown grass. A bee droned gently past the faintly nodding, colourful spikes of foxgloves, lupins and delphiniums in the flower border and which Tom had created for Sybil; in conscious emulation of one they had both seen and which she had very much admired, when looking over the wall adjoining a cottage in one of the back streets of Downton during the Statute Fair a couple of years ago.

He could deny her nothing and so had worked very hard and in all weathers on an especially unpromising patch of ground at the rear of their house to bring about the creation of what he chose to call her "piece of home". While Sybil had been utterly delighted with the end result, she had moved him to tears when she had said that her only home was here - in Ireland, with him and their children.

Nonetheless,there was no gainsaying the fact that in summer the result of all Tom's hard labours in their garden was a riot both of colour and of scent. The previous year even Matthew and Mary, on one of their very rare forays across the Irish Sea and staying at the Shelbourne Hotel – where else – and at which they had taken a suite "so as not to incommode you", on their arrival at the house in Idrone Terrace to "take afternoon tea" had been very much impressed.

* * *

**Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, August 1926. **

While, at Mary's insistence, Simon, then aged only three, had been left behind at Downton in the charge of the capable Nanny Bridges, much to Danny's infinite delight, as promised, Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary had brought with them their elder son, his cousin, young Robert.

Despite the fact that they were expected for afternoon tea, nonetheless, Danny had spent most of that August morning kneeling on the window seat of his bedroom, watching out for the motor from the Shelbourne Hotel to make its appearance in the dusty street below. To Danny, time seemed to stand still; the hours seemed to drag and then, suddenly it was lunchtime after which he was sent upstairs to wash and to change his clothes.

Then, at 3pm precisely, the longed for motor duly arrived and in the form of a chauffeur-driven, gleaming, maroon-coloured, 3 litre Bentley, For a moment, Danny found himself seemingly unable to move, transfixed as he was by the sight of the splendid machine; enthralled as it purred gently to an exact stop outside the front door of his own home.

Watched as well by several of their intrigued neighbours, Danny now saw the liveried chauffeur descend from the driver's seat, walk slowly towards the back of the Bentley and open the rear door adjoining the pavement, enabling Danny's Aunt Mary to get out; saw her joined moments later by his Uncle Matthew and by their son, Danny's much-loved cousin Robert.

Seeing Danny kneeling in the window above, Robert waved enthusiastically, the exuberance of his greeting cut short by an obvious sharp rebuke from his mother. As his aunt turned on her heel and walked purposefully up the path towards the house, Danny saw Robert sporting a cheeky grin and shrugging his shoulders dismissively. Shouting down to his parents that Uncle Matthew and Aunt Mary had arrived at last, scrambling down from off the window seat, Danny raced downstairs so as to be at the front door in time to welcome them, along with Da, Ma and his sister Saiorse.

Once the usual greetings were over, with Eileen charged to keep a watchful eye on Saiorse in the kitchen, having been promised that he and Da could inspect the Bentley later, with his parents' permission Danny had taken Robert upstairs to his bedroom to show his cousin his new clockwork train set, while Da and Ma entertained his uncle and aunt to afternoon tea in the downstairs front room and which like Danny's bedroom overlooked the sea.

Sometime later, having exhausted all their news, with Tom and Matthew having promptly disappeared off upstairs in search of their young sons, Sybil had offered to show Mary over the house. Without waiting for her agreement - something which Mary was shortly to find out was a Branson family trait - Sybil had marched proudly ahead of her, as though, thought Mary, her youngest sister was the châtelaine of some grand property akin to Downton, rather than of a modest and, she conceded grudgingly, an admittedly attractive, small terraced house situated in a suburb here on the south side of Dublin.

Undaunted and unabashed, Sybil now conducted her eldest sister on a whirlwind tour of all the various rooms, pointing out certain pieces of furniture which they had bought, along with some of the improvements which they had made, most of which it transpired Tom had undertaken. Upstairs she paused briefly in front of a firmly closed door and from behind which four animated voices could be heard.

"And this, this is Danny's room".

With Mary following dutifully in her wake, without knocking, Sybil opened the door and breezed airily inside, to be confronted by the sight of Danny, Robert, Tom and Matthew all down on their knees on the bare boards of the floor, with Tom attending to some minor problem with one of Danny's little clockwork engines, while, totally absorbed in their task and with their backs to the door, Robert and Matthew were equally busily engaged in extending the length of line available on which to run the toy engine, tender and its half dozen tinplate coaches.

Initially, the entrance of the two women into what, on the face of it, seemed to be undeniably a male sanctum, seemed to pass almost unnoticed, until that was, Danny took it upon himself to explain something of the present proceedings.

"Da says there's a problem with the spring. My Da can fix anything" he explained to his aunt with evident pride.

"I'm sure he can". Mary smiled. On hearing her voice, Matthew and Robert now scrambled hastily to their feet.

"Hello, Mama!" Robert flushed. "I… we were…" He shot a pleading glance at his father.

"Sorry! We, er… well, as you can see," mumbled Matthew.

"Oh, don't mind me!" breezed Mary, then horrified when, taking her at her word, her two men folk promptly turned their backs on her and resumed their endeavours with the lengths of miniature railway track.

"We'll be outside then," said Sybil.

Response came there none.

"There that should do it, son," said Tom confidently.

"That's it, Uncle Matthew, we can then run it under my bed!" exclaimed Danny enthusiastically.

"We'll be outside then," repeated Sybil.

Still no response.

"These, Dan?" asked Robert picking up a pair of small coaches from off the floor and offering them to Danny.

"No, Rob, those belong with the other one". This from Danny.

"Where's the station to go?" asked Matthew holding up a colourful little building also made of tinplate.

"Over there by the chest of drawers, I think," offered Tom.

"**In the garden, then,"** repeated Sybil crisply and with mounting exasperation.

Still no reply.

Sybil shook her head in utter disbelief.

"Mary, have you ever read _The Invisible Man_ by H. G. Wells?" she asked loudly.

Her sister shook her head emphatically.

"No, I haven't. Why? Should I have?"

Sybil smiled.

"No, not really, no matter if you haven't but I'm sorely tempted to begin writing a sequel called _The Invisible Woman_. Honestly! Men!" exclaimed Sybil with mock indignation and shutting the door firmly behind her as she and Mary came out onto the narrow landing. "Anyway, garden next, I think!" she added cheerfully.

A short while later, beneath a cloudless sky, eventually having been joined outside in the garden by both their husbands and the three children, Mary found herself contemplating of all things, … a flower border, while Sybil explained with evident pride how Tom had turned an apparent wasteland into what they now saw before them: what Mary imagined must, in the suburbs of a city, pass for a garden and which to her eyes looked so insignificant in size as to hardly warrant the nomenclature.

"There's very little Tom can't turn his hand too!" explained Sybil proudly, linking her arm through her husband's. Tom grinned, leaned in for a kiss from his wife and then raised his eyes heavenwards. At their open display of affection, Mary smiled; reflecting ruefully at the same time that if asked to do so, no doubt Tom Branson would have no problem whatsoever in mounting an expedition to find Colonel Fawcett and his son missing for over two years now, lost somewhere in the dense jungles of South America.

"And I helped as well, didn't I, Ma?"  
Sybil ruffled her son's dark hair.

"Yes, of course you did, my darling".

"I couldn't have done it without you, for sure!" Tom put his arm around his son's shoulders. Danny positively beamed with pride.

"And I help water them all every day, don't I, Da!" asked Saiorse with equal delight. She pointed over to where a brimming watering can stood sentinel beside a large wooden water butt.

"Yes darlin', you do!" Tom chuckled and hugged his daughter to him. Saiorse grinned. She loved her Da so very much. Unlike her cousin Robert who she disliked intensely, probably, although she had never stopped to ask herself why, on account of the fact that whenever he was around, he seemed to claim all of her adored brother, Danny's, undivided attention. And **that** was something which Saiorse could not, would not forgive and which she resented with a vengeance.

"Aunt Mary, please will you come and see my potatoes?" begged Danny.

"Dan's grown them all by himself, Mama!" explained Robert with something akin to awe.

"**Daniel**," she corrected. "Indeed?" Mary grimaced and then forced a strained smile. Potatoes? Honestly, whatever next?

In fact what came next was that and without waiting for his aunt's agreement, taking firm hold of her hand, young Danny had tugged her along a narrow brick path - laid apparently by Tom - to stand in front of what her nephew now proudly assured her was a row of potatoes.

"And those…" Danny delightedly indicated the adjoining row of plants with a broad sweep of his hand, "those, are my carrots! And over there, those are my peas!"

Mary dutifully tried her very best to look impressed; not that, apart from a collection of twigs placed for some mysterious purpose over one row the reason for which Danny had not vouchsafed to her, could she discern the slightest difference whatsoever between the three admittedly neatly ordered lines of small plants.

"Really, Daniel? Yes, very nice, indeed".

"And Da says if there are enough potatoes, I can take them into Dublin to sell on O'Connell Street".

"How delightful for you!" There really was little else which, in all honesty, Mary felt she could say.

And, it was as she continued to contemplate stolidly the three rows of green shoots with something which she hoped passed for feigned interest, that Mary found herself wondering what precisely it was about mud and soil that seemed to so fascinate her two sisters. After all, there was Edith forever down on her knees, scrambling about in the dirt either on the banks of the Nile in Egypt or somewhere in the sand dunes of distant Mesopotamia looking for broken pieces of pottery, while, here in Dublin, it was Sybil waxing lyrical about the flowers and vegetables she had planted in her pocket handkerchief sized garden.

Mary sighed heavily and with decided resignation. She simply could not understand the attraction of grubbing about in the dirt. However, on reflection, perhaps… perhaps she should be somewhat more charitably disposed and also very thankful for small mercies; after all, the results of some of Sybil's labours were, unlike Edith's, presumably, at least, edible and, besides, no member of Mary's immediate family had shown the slightest interest in digging and getting their hands dirty.

However, as things turned out, her confidence was both misplaced and premature. For, but a short while later, with Tom and Danny duly having inspected the Bentley and then with their farewells having been made, sitting on the rear seat of the motor en route back to the Shelbourne Hotel, where later that same evening Matthew and Mary were entertaining Tom and Sybil to dinner, young Robert had turned to his father and asked him politely if he might be permitted to have his own vegetable patch in the kitchen garden back at Downton.

"Of course! Absolutely! Splendid idea, old chap!" exclaimed Matthew.

Mary could not believe the evidence of her own ears, did her very best not to grimace, turned her head and looked out of the window of the Bentley at the passing streets of Dublin. While she loved him dearly, at this precise moment in time, it was her considered opinion that Tom Branson had a very great deal for which to answer.

Whereupon, Mary experienced a sudden nightmarish vision of, after they had returned home to Downton, her elder son gleefully presenting her at breakfast with an unwanted sack of potatoes and with Matthew then insisting that she help Robert sell them on a stall in the market down in the village. Mary winced and, convinced without doubt that before this day was over she would be experiencing one of her famous migraines, she pressed her fingers gingerly to her temples.

Dear God, whatever next?

* * *

**Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, July 1927.**

Across the road, beyond the railway line, the insistent ebb and flow of the incoming tide on the far side of the house was clearly audible, broken only by the whistle of an express train rattling at speed through the little station at Blackrock.

When he had approached her earlier, Tom had seen that Sybil had a leather bound photograph album open resting upon her knees.

"Reminiscing?" he asked with a grin and tapped the album which lay open at a series of photographs taken several years ago when they had travelled down to County Cork in the summer of 1924, in the aftermath of the ending of the Irish Civil War.

Sybil nodded. She now pointed to one of the sepia coloured photographs taken on her first camera, a Box Brownie; his Christmas present to her in December 1922 and with which she had been especially delighted.

"Do you remember..."

**Author's Note:**

"The Invisible Man" by H.G. Wells was first published in 1897.

A General Election had been held in the Irish Free State in June 1927, leading to a hung Dáil and with Fianna Fáil, led by Éamon de Valera, entering the Dáil for the very first time.

Lieutenant Colonel Percival Harrison Fawcett (1867 -1925?) was a British artillery officer, archaeologist and explorer. In 1925, he and his eldest son Jack vanished in the jungles of Brazil while searching for a lost city which Fawcett believed to be El Dorado. Despite several expeditions to try and find out what had become of Fawcett and his companions, to this day no trace of them has ever been found.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Hell Is The Truth Learned Too Late

**Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, Tuesday evening, 22nd August 1922.**

Tom would remember that particular moment until the very end of his life.

In fact, when Sybil had come hurrying down the path towards him, he had been thinking of nothing in particular, occupied as he was in pushing Danny to and fro on the swing he had set up for the little boy beneath the boughs of the apple tree at the far end of the garden. And, intent as he was in steadying Danny on the wooden seat, he did not hear or see Sybil until the very last minute.

"Tom, darling! There's a telephone call for you..."

* * *

**Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, Tuesday morning, 22nd August 1922.**

For Tom, this Tuesday had begun prosaically enough, indeed just like any other day of the week, with the early morning sunshine peeping with ever pressing insistence and, at this time of the year, with ever increasing brightness, through the chink between the closed curtains and into their bedroom, followed by the usual round of blissful, pleasing, daily domesticity. Waking pleasurably in their bed with Sybil lying beside him, their customary playful, soft, early morning greetings, followed by a series of languid lengthening kisses, before reluctantly clambering out of bed, drawing back the curtains and then padding downstairs, barefoot, in his vest and pyjama bottoms, to make them both a cup of tea.

Tom was not a morning person; never had been and never would be and it was at moments like this, that he found himself thinking that if there had been a bell pull beside the bed, he might just have been tempted to make use of it. Perhaps, after all, there was something to be said for having servants! As he reached the foot of the stairs here in Idrone Terrace, Tom chuckled softly to himself. He couldn't imagine his dearly loved brother-in-law, Matthew, padding downstairs at Downton Abbey in order to make dearest Mary a cup of tea! Tom chuckled; thought it exceedingly unlikely that Matthew would even be able to find his way down to the kitchen, let alone put water in a kettle and set it to boil. Knowing he was being rather unfair, Tom chuckled again.

* * *

In the Bransons' own kitchen, standing by the range, waiting for the enamel kettle to boil, Tom heard a door slam upstairs, followed by the flush of the toilet cistern and then the patter of little footsteps scurrying down the passage, a moment later sounding on the ceiling overhead; all sure signs that young Danny too was awake, had run in to see both his mother and little sister and was, no doubt, at this precise minute, snuggling down under the covers next to Sybil.

A short while later, taking their tea upstairs, he found, as he had expected, Danny snuggled down in the bed beside his Ma and Sybil with Saiorse in her arms. A morning kiss to both of his children and then tea in bed with Sybil, before, and with infinite reluctance, dragging himself out of bed and down the passage into the bathroom, there to wash and shave. In the midst of his ablutions, the brass knob of the bathroom door turned as Danny, dressed identically to Tom, puttered into the room, to sit on the closed toilet seat for his customary morning chat with his Da, man to man.

Then, he was moving slowly about their bedroom, shedding his vest and pyjama bottoms, knowing that Sybil's eyes were upon him as he did so, she who, after some three years of marriage, knew his body as intimately as he did her own, before dressing and for which he needed his ... clothes. Come to think of it, where **were** his clothes? Perhaps Sybil had hidden them just so as to prevent him going into work. Tom grinned. All the same, he supposed he had better ask her.

"Syb?"  
"Hm?"

Where's my..."  
"Shirt? Hanging up in the wardrobe, along with your suit".

Tom sighed dejectedly as the delightful prospect of a day spent at home in bed with Sybil fast receded out of sight.

"That's not where I left..."

"No, it isn't but that's where they belong... **not** on the floor!"

"Oh, right!" Absent minded,Tom yawned and scratched his chest. Stark naked, modesty between them was long since a thing of the past, rubbing his eyes, he moved slowly and unwillingly in the direction of the wardrobe. There he stopped and looked about him, evidently puzzled.

"Undershorts?" he queried.  
"In the chest of drawers. Left hand side. Top drawer. That's where they always are. Along with your socks. Just in case you hadn't noticed. Honestly Tom, it would be easier if I dressed you myself!" At that he seemed to perk up; had shot her a sly, suggestive look.

"You can wipe that smile off your face! And, anyway, I said dressed, not undressed!"

A little while later, finally having dressed himself, Tom sat back down disconsolately and heavily on the bed and leaned in towards her, there had followed another series of languid, loving kisses.

"Must...you...go?"

He saw her eyes glisten with tears.

"I...don't... want...to...,love. You...know...I...don't...but...I...must!".

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Mind you, it's all right for some," he whispered taking her hand gently in his. "I mean now that you're a lady of leisure!"  
"**Leisure**? With two small children and this house to look after!" Sybil laughed. Letting go of his hand, she pummelled his chest gently, knowing that he had spoken in jest.

So as to be in time for the half past seven train, which, if it was running to schedule would get him into Dublin's Westland Row station for a little after eight o'clock and thus enable him to be at his desk in Talbot Street by half past the hour, reluctantly, Tom had broken free of the warmth of her embrace. With a fond, lingering, backward glance over his shoulder at his family, he had padded back downstairs in his stockinged feet to begin making himself breakfast. Nothing fancy; a fresh pot of tea, eggs and bacon and a round of toast and marmalade. Whistling merrily, revelling in his singular good fortune, Tom busied himself about the quarry tiled kitchen.

Moments later, upstairs, a floorboard creaked, footsteps sounded on the stairs and shortly thereafter Sybil, with both Danny and Saiorse in tow, joined him in the kitchen. Her offer to cook him breakfast while he minded the children was usually declined; burnt offerings were not his cup of tea. That was, like his earlier thoughts about Matthew, wholly unworthy. Sybil's cooking skills had improved beyond all recognition from what they had once been; although, from time to time, there was still the occasional culinary disaster.

Sybil took Tom's refusal about cooking him his breakfast with her usual good grace. Instead, she sat contentedly at the other end of the table and finished slowly drinking her tea, while Tom cooked his own bacon and eggs, pulled faces at Saiorse, tickled Danny and then kissed his wife soundly, drawing the predictable giggle from his young son.

Sitting at the pitch pine table eating his breakfast, Tom happened to glance up to find three pairs of eyes were upon him; four if he counted the inscrutable yellow orbs of the tabby cat which they had adopted, or rather which had adopted them and which, having sauntered into the kitchen from the garden, was now sitting just inside the back door patiently awaiting the appearance of its own early morning meal.

"Oh no you don't young lady! Remember what happened the last time?" exclaimed Sybil.

For, on seeing the cat appear in the kitchen, Saiorse had scrambled down from off her mother's lap and had made a bee-line straight for the furry animal beside the back door. Clearly the cat had not forgotten his last encounter with Saiorse either as, seeing her heading towards him across the floor of the kitchen, he promptly vaulted lithely up on to the window cill well out of reach and from where the cat proceeded to sit looking disdainfully down upon the small child. Baulked of her prey, Saiorse promptly burst into tears until Sybil swept her up into her arms, sat her daughter back on her knees, hugging the little girl to her whereupon Saiorse's cries slowly subsided.

"There, there, that's better. Puss doesn't like having his tail pulled, remember? We'll feed him later, when Da's gone to work and we've had breakfast".

"I'm sure that cat's got fleas," opined Tom scratching his own shoulder.

"If he had, he wouldn't be given house room and if you have, then neither will you!" retorted Sybil smartly.

"Oh, that's perfect for sure! And just while I'm having breakfast!" Tom grimaced; the cat, having decided that now a wash was in order, had started licking its bottom, the sight of which sent little Danny into a paroxysm of giggles. Tom shook his head and grinned good-naturedly. After all, the cat apart, while at Downton, how often had he dreamed of this, married to Sybil, with a couple of children and a home of their own? And with a job in which he both delighted and at which he excelled. Was there a luckier man in the entire country? He doubted that very much; he became aware of Sybil's eyes upon him.

"Penny for them?"  
"Eh? What?"

"You look just like the cat that swallowed the cream!"

"Never you mind for sure!"

He grinned happily at her, then averting his eyes from the cat, he cut into another rasher of bacon, his thoughts now drifting to the major article he was writing on the on-going Civil War. With Ireland having been granted her independence, whatever its flaws - they were, with good will on all sides, capable of eventual and lasting resolution - with the fighting here in Dublin long over and, according to Michael Collins, with whom he had spoken to by telephone the previous day, with the National Army now in control of all the major towns, the city of Cork having fallen a matter of days ago following the landing of troops by sea at Passage West, the Republicans who opposed the Anglo-Irish Treaty would surely soon realise that resistance was pointless, lay down their weapons and negotiate a lasting settlement. Of some three months bloody duration, the Civil War would then thankfully be at an end and the business of constructing a fairer society here in Ireland could begin in earnest. With all this in mind, Tom mouthed a silent prayer that all this would now soon come to pass.

"What?" asked Sybil.

"I told you, woman. Never you mind!"

Sybil raised her eyebrows.

"**Woman**? Don't you "woman" me, Tom Branson!" She laughed and Tom shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Danny, darling, for goodness' sake! Let your Da finish his breakfast!" she exclaimed as Danny, who had wandered out of the kitchen and back upstairs to find his teddy bear, had now returned, not only with his bear but also carrying his father's shoes, brushes and a tin of shoe polish from the cupboard in the hall under the stairs.

Tom smiled.

"Thanks, son".

He smiled and cramming the last piece of toast into his mouth, having sat Danny down on his own chair, swiftly divested the little boy of boots, brushes and polish recalling that the last time his son had tried to be helpful in this regard, it had taken Sybil more than one attempt to get Danny's hands clean; more polish having found its way onto Danny himself than onto his father's shoes.

Thereafter, having polished his own shoes and put them on, taking the precaution too of tying his own laces - the last time Danny attempted to help he had tied them both together - having slipped on his jacket, Tom stood and waited in the tiled hallway, while Sybil straightened his tie and which, Tom often left slightly awry just for the simple pleasure of having her adjust it.

"There!" She ran her fingers along the entire width of both his shoulders, admiring their breadth; stood back and beamed at him.

"Will I do?" he asked.

"To be sure!" She laughed. "The handsomest man in all of Dublin!"

At that he kissed her soundly, said his goodbyes to the children and then reached for his trilby hanging by the door.

"Love, assuming nothing comes up, I'll be back here for six".

At that, Sybil lofted a surprised brow. After all, she had heard him make that promise to her many times before; only then to break it. Nonetheless, as Tom opened the door, she had, as was her custom, stood with the children on the step to watch him go as he sent off at a jaunty pace bound for the station but a short distance away on the other side of the road.

* * *

However, that day, nothing of particular note did arise, Tom was as good as his word and he arrived back home on the five thirty train from Dublin. It was hot in town and with the narrow, musty-smelling compartments of the wooden carriages packed with passengers, he had been very glad to reach Blackrock. Nonetheless, that evening, as Tom stepped down from the crowded train and onto the platform, there was something preying on his mind; something he had heard that very morning in a telephone call received at the Independent and which had been put through to him at his desk. The information the anonymous caller had to impart had been somewhat garbled but made mention of de Valera and also of Michael Collins who Tom knew was presently away from Dublin, down in County Cork, on a morale boosting trip, visiting units of the National Army.

From what Michael had told him, Tom knew also that while once they had been comrades in arms, considerable animosity and ill feeling now existed between the two men; that while de Valera continued to oppose the Anglo-Irish Treaty, Collins was much more of a realist and considered that the Treaty, imperfect as it was, should be upheld, thought too that de Valera, who had been away in America for many months on a fund raising trip, was hopelessly out of touch with the realities of both the political and military situation here in Ireland. Indeed, in their telephone conversation the previous day Collins had expressed to Tom the belief that he thought de Valera envied him his easy rapport with the troops and his ability to mix with one and all. Tom, who had met de Valera on but a couple of occasions would readily have attested to the fact that of the two men, Michael Collins was the far easier with whom to establish a rapport. With him the words amiable and approachable immediately sprang easily to the mind; with de Valera, aloof and austere.

At the time the caller's comments about de Valera, his present whereabouts and with whom it was said he was meeting had struck Tom as singularly odd; if true, then something didn't quite add up but for whatever reason, the caller had rung off with his tale half told and another matter had claimed Tom's attention. Now, unlike Ma, rather like Collins himself, Tom himself was a realist; he did not believe in Second Sight and so was not given to flights of fancy. Yet, for all that, as he climbed down from the train at Blackrock, he had a grim sense of foreboding that something singularly unpleasant was about to happen. Nonetheless, he was still none the wiser as to what that might be when, having sauntered up the path to his home, he turned the key in the lock and walked through the front door to be met in the hallway by both Sybil and the children.

* * *

**Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, Tuesday evening, 22nd August 1922.**

"Thank you," said Tom haltingly. "Thank you for letting me know". He replaced the receiver in its cradle just as Sybil came into the hallway. He looked up; she saw his face and gasped. He looked ashen; utterly drained.

"My God, Tom! Darling, whatever is it?" Seeing his obvious distress, in an instant, she had moved swiftly towards him.

"It's Michael Collins," he said softly. "He's been shot and killed... in an ambush, down near Cork," he added brokenly and then promptly burst into tears.

* * *

**Skerries House, County Cork, Irish Free State, July 1924.**

As he watched the Tourer drew to a stop in front of the blackened, charred ruins of Skerries House and then those inside the motor clamber out, when he saw who it was they were, Fergal could not believe his good fortune and, if only for an instant he found himself thinking back to that moment back in April 1921 when he had found out the truth regarding his parentage then afterwards when, his thoughts in a complete whirl, utterly disconsolate, he had sat on the edge of Union Quay staring down into the grey waters of the Liffey.

That he was the son of Miss Maeve Branson, his father being her cousin, Tom Branson, the well-known Dublin journalist. That his father had abandoned his mother for another woman and that as a young girl his mother had been sent away to have her baby elsewhere; that he had been adopted by a local family, the Ryans then tenants of Miss Maeve's own parents. For Fergal, everything had then fallen into place; the interest Miss Maeve had taken in him as a boy, the many kindnesses she had shown towards him and then as a young man, leaving to him in her will, her fine house on North Mall over there in Cork, along with certain leases and rents; although some of the last were now worthless as they had been payable from properties in the Munster Arcade on the south side of Patrick Street and which had been destroyed in the burning of Cork.

Nonetheless, with the monies which were now at his disposal, Fergal was undeniably a man of independent means. Having learned from his mother's letter to him of how cruelly she had been treated and with fond memories of the kindness she had always shown towards him, he felt nothing but compassion for her. So it was, that following her interment, in the shadow of the ruins of the great house, in the small grave yard here at Skerries and which Fergal had thought to be an exceedingly shabby affair, in due course and believing himself to be her only living relative he had seen to it that a decent memorial stone had been erected to mark his late mother's final resting place.

Despite the sudden and startling improvement in his prospects, Fergal remained on excellent terms with the Ryans who had raised him; still looked upon them as his Ma and Da, paid for long overdue repairs to the farmhouse and outbuildings and continued to help out at the farm which was what had brought him out here to Skerries today. While the rents from the properties on Patrick Street were irrevocably lost, others elsewhere in the city being still extant provided Fergal with a more than adequate income, as indeed did the property on North Mall and which, at least for the present, he rented out, preferring instead the amenities of a spacious third floor flat on the Glanmire Road close to the railway station and where, with the improvement in his fortunes and social prospects, personable and good looking, he was presently carrying on a pleasurable association with Margarethe Rieck the younger daughter of a retired German professor and who lived close by on Summer Hill.

Bringing with him at the time his wife and young family, Margarethe's father had come over to Ireland in 1905, from Heidelberg in Germany, to teach philosophy at the University College in Cork. A pleasant academic career and a comfortable middle class existence were both cut short by the Great War when, as an enemy alien, in May 1915, in the aftermath of the sinking of the Lusitania, Professor Rieck and his two sons by then aged seventeen and eighteen had all been interned at Douglas on the Isle of Man for the duration of hostilities. An experience which in due course affected the professor's health also left his family in straightened circumstances and Margarethe with an abiding hatred of the British, something which Fergal himself also shared. At the end of the war her two brothers had gone back to Heidelberg and were now pressing their widowed father and Margarethe to do the same. It was more than likely, thought Fergal, that before the year was out, despite all the problems over there, they too would have returned to Germany, although, for now at least, little did he realise what all of this would mean for him.

With the granting of independence, dissatisfied, as indeed were many others with the terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty, Fergal had thrown in his lot with the republicans, resuming his old contacts within the local IRA and it was this which had taken him up to Dublin in the spring of 1922, there to play his part in helping to defend the Four Courts and with the siege over, believing his natural father to have been killed in the burning of Cork, to a wholly unexpected chance encounter with someone he had assumed was long dead. And, if he had compassion for his late mother, then for the father he had been told had abandoned both her and himself, Fergal felt nothing; except an intense and burning hatred.

And now, here was the very man himself.

Wrenching open the door of what in former times here at Skerries had been the gardener's cottage Fergal strode purposefully out across the gravel and towards the stationary motor. Fumbling for the Mauser pistol lying within the pocket of his jacket, having now found it, he promptly released the safety catch.

* * *

In the light of what he knew, what he had now just heard, a calmly reasoned defence of as he saw it the indefensible, a red mist of blind rage descended upon Fergal – directed entirely at the man now standing before him and quietly denying everything; just as his mother had said he would. Well...

"Yous feckin'bastard! Yous had her and then… then yous abandoned both **her** and **me**!"  
"I did no such thing! Lad, I've already said, I'm **not** your father! You're her br…" Tom's voice faltered. He was bone weary. How could he tell this distraught boy that he was the product of an incestuous liaison between his mother and her very own brother? It would, for sure, only make things worse.

"She said yous would say that!"

"Jaysus! Whatever it was your mother wrote and told you about me, it's not true" said Tom with mounting frustration. Even so, he knew that he was wasting his breath.

"I don't believe yous!" yelled Fergal. At that he reached quickly inside the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the revolver; seeing what it was the boy now held in his hand, without hesitating for a moment, Tom moved instantly to shield both his wife and children. Then, for one brief moment, time itself seemed to stand still; the ensuing silence lengthened, broken only when, behind him Tom heard Saiorse begin to whimper, while Danny buried his face against his mother's side.

"I'm a good shot and even if I wasn't, at this range I can't miss!" scoffed Fergal.

"**No**!" screamed Sybil, both horrified and appalled by what was happening.

For his part, without once turning his head, instead both keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the angry young man standing a few paces away from him and his voice level,Tom spoke calmly and clearly.

"Sybil, darlin', do as I tell you. Get the children and yourself back into the motor," indicating for her to do just as he had said with a backward sweep of his left hand.

That he had positioned himself directly between his family and Fergal came as no surprise to Sybil. Tom's courage had never been something which she doubted. She knew already how brave a man he was from what had happened five years earlier at the ceilidh held to celebrate their wedding when she had watched with pride as, single handed, Tom had faced down the might of the British army.

"Ma, why's that man pointing a gun at Da?" asked Danny with a child's unconcern and now lifting his head from her side.

"They're just playing a silly game, darling," said Sybil coolly and trying to keep her voice sounding normal. "Now, darling, please do just like Da's asked you and get into the motor". Fortunately, Danny did exactly as he had been told. A moment later and Tom heard the door of the motor close; knew then that Sybil and the children were safely back inside the vehicle.

"You won't pull that trigger," he said softly, shaking his head.

"Oh, won't I?"

"No, you won't. If you were going to, you'd have done so by now".

"You think so?"  
"I **know** so. It's not easy, is it, to kill a man in cold blood? You haven't got it in you!" Unwittingly, here, Tom had struck a raw nerve; completely unaware as he was of Fergal's part in the botched IRA attack at the Imperial Hotel in which his own mother had been killed.

"Then feckin' think again!" yelled Fergal taking deliberate aim at Tom with the Mauser. He had run from the debacle at the Imperial; this time he would see it through.

More or less instantaneously, three things now happened.

Tom froze.

Fergal squeezed hard on the trigger.

There came the faintest of clicks but nothing else; the magazine latch had jammed.

"Feckin' hell!" screamed Fergal struggling frantically with the faulty pistol.

However, before the boy could take aim again, Tom had thrown himself into the driving seat of the Tourer and putting his driving skills to good effect, in a manner which would have drawn admiration from Count Louis Zborowski himself, with gravel flying in all directions, twisting and turning, now reversed the motor at high speed back down the overgrown drive, with little Danny, completely uncomprehending of what really it was that had just taken place, clapping his hands excitedly from the back seat.

"Da! Go faster!" he giggled.

* * *

**Beara Peninsula, County Cork, Irish Free State, July 1924.**

He had thought the state of the roads around Cork to be bad enough, but if anyone had bothered to ask him what he thought of those over here in the far south west of Ireland, Tom Branson would readily have conceded that they were even worse. Nonetheless, even Sybil, who since childhood had grown up used to the stark beauty and grandeur of the West Riding of Yorkshire had to admit that there was no denying the fact that the rugged, unspoilt scenery hereabouts on the Beara Peninsula in the far south west of County Cork was truly magnificent.

For the most part, a wild, untamed landscape, of crystal clear lakes, tumbling streams, cascading waterfalls, brooding mountain ranges, sandy bays, hidden coves and sea girt cliffs; dotted with all manner of prehistoric remains, along with reed thatched cottages and a smattering of villages and little towns, where many of the trees were stunted, bent and twisted by the force of the prevailing westerly winds. But, as they were shortly to find, even here in this remote, beautiful spot, reminders of the recent troubles which had so recently torn Ireland apart were never very far away.

After the wholly unexpected and frightening encounter with Fergal at Skerries, having brought the motor to a stand several miles down the road from the ruins of the house, once they had both recovered somewhat from the shock of what had happened, Tom had then driven the Tourer quickly back into Cork, straight to the Imperial Hotel, where, as they intended, they all had spent the night.

Once the children had been put to bed, both of them seemingly no worse for what had happened - Saiorse was still too young to comprehend and Danny believed the whole incident to have been nothing more than a game, having eaten their supper in the hotel dining room, once back in the privacy of their bedroom, ironically, had they but known it but a few doors along from the very spot where Maeve had been shot and killed by the Black and Tans, Tom and Sybil sat up long into the night debating what should be done. They went round and round in circles; should they do this, should they do that? Clearly Maeve had not told the young man the truth about his parentage but what good would it serve to try and convince him otherwise? Both were firmly of the opinion that no useful purpose would be served by reporting the matter to the police and so it was that, after a decidedly restless night, in the end, the following morning they decided jointly to let sleeping dogs lie.

They would not be returning to Skerries, ever.

Let the past bury the past.

It was a fateful decision and one which they would both live to regret.

* * *

The following morning, after breakfast, having paid their bill, Tom drove the Tourer down as far as Albert Quay, past the burnt out ruins of the City Hall and the Carnegie Library as far as the railway station from where, a lifetime ago, or so it seemed, they had caught the train out to Skerries Road. Today they were met by the genial Mr. Kelly. While a porter from the station saw to their luggage, Tom handed the keys of the motor back to its owner who, once again, promised faithfully that he would ensure that Tom's beloved motorcycle was sent up north by the first available train to Dublin.

This time, the Bransons' journey by train would take them much further, south westwards as far as the wild waters of the Atlantic Ocean, travelling by way of Bandon, Dunmanway - close to the scene of the Kilmichael Ambush which had presaged the burning of Cork and Drimoleague - passing through a whole host of villages in between, ever onwards towards Bantry on the far west coast, nestling at the head of the bay of the same name and where they would be staying the night at Canty's Hotel on New Street not far from both the harbour and the railway station.

* * *

"Why not Vickery's, Tom? It sounds very modern. Listen..."

And, as their train steamed through Durrus Road, the last station on the line before Bantry, with Danny now kneeling on the seat looking excitedly through the window of the compartment for the very first glimpse of the approaching sea and with Saiorse on her lap, Sybil now quoted from a guidebook to the amenities on offer in distant Bantry:

_The establishment is designed throughout on modern principles, the general arrangements and style of furnishing being of a very superior order... the bedrooms are airy and comfortably furnished. Special attention is directed to the most scrupulous celanliness, and visitors may indulge in the luxury of hot and cold plunge and spray baths. _

"You'll see" was Tom's enigmatic reply and with that she had to be content.

A short while later, after their train had drawn finally to a stop alongside the little wooden station at Bantry overlooking the sea, having clambered out of their compartment and with Tom carrying their suitcases and Sybil minding the children, beneath a cloudless, blue sky they all set off on foot from the station, round the curve of the harbour, to find the little town bustling with all manner of people. Here in Ireland, unless the journey they were making was a long one, they nearly always walked, so, it was probably nothing more than the sight of Tom's back as he strode slightly ahead of them which set Sybil to thinking that if this had been Downton then the chauffeur driven motor from the abbey would have been there in good time to meet the train, waiting in the station yard ready to convey them all up to the house.

Not that any explanation was really necessary but, said Tom, as they wended their way slowly across Wolf Tone Square, through the busy, noisy market, it was Fair Day here in Bantry. Along with two wheeled carts and ponies, the carts loaded with vegetables and farm produce, the square was a veritable sea of both people and livestock, with herds of lowing black cattle and flocks of bleating, woolly sheep having been brought in for sale from the surrounding countryside from the top of Borlin, from Durrus, from Colomane and from Kilcrohane; with buyers pouring into the town from as far away as Dundalk, Galway and Mayo at least to judge by their accents. Not only the square but also the narrow streets were positively thronging with people and all of the bars were doing a roaring trade.

"Da, why's that little cow got that mark on his back?" asked Danny as they all stood to one side so as to allow a small herd of cattle to pass by on their way down to the railway station. Tom followed his son's gaze; saw part of the hide on the calf's back and on those of its companions had been shorn away.

"That's just to show he's been sold," explained Tom. He chuckled. "Shall I do that with your hair when I sell yous?" He laughed.

"Yous wouldn't ever sell me for sure, Da!" exclaimed Danny. "Would yous?" he asked timidly as an after thought.

"Never!" chuckled Tom. "But I might just sell your Ma!" He glanced round to see that Sybil was smiling; had overheard what he was saying.

"Not if I sell you first!" Thinking just how easy were they in each other's company compared to some couples they knew, Sybil laughed; she was still doing so as moments later they made their way out of the fair and walked up New Street in search of Canty's Hotel.

"And **that's** why we aren't staying at Vickery's!" proclaimed Tom indicating the hotel on their right, the reason for which was now all too obvious. The building was heavily shrouded in scaffolding and was clearly in the throes of being rebuilt having, as Tom went on to explain, been set on fire by the IRA back in 1921 when there had been every likelihood that it would be taken over and used by the Black and Tans.

As it was, the amenities on offer at Canty's Hotel proved entirely acceptable and having been shown upstairs to their first floor room overlooking the street, they washed and unpacked. Then, after a cold luncheon served to them in the hotel dining room, they wandered into town, to see what Bantry itself had to offer, pausing at Dillons on Main Street where Sybil purchased some ribbon for Saiorse's straw bonnet. Thereafter, they strolled slowly back into the square to look at the market stalls erected there for the duration of the fair; bought the children an apple each from a dark haired, cloth capped boy, but a few years older than Danny, sitting on an empty chicken coop, selling apples from out of a chipped earthenware bowl.

They walked on again, this time as far as the railway station and the harbour. Here, while Sybil sat with Saiorse on a bench out of the sun and looked at the fishing boats riding gently at anchor in the calm waters of the bay, Tom and Danny stood and watched as a small green tank engine marshalled a line of wagons loaded with cattle from the fair. When Danny had asked whence they were bound, for once, Tom had not known what to say. How did one explain to a four year old boy the concept of sending animals for slaughter? Instead, Tom demurred and simply said he wasn't sure and which was true enough. Then with the engine having finished its shunting for the day, they had walked the short distance out to the pier used by the steam ships serving Glengarriff and Castletownbere, to look at the tramp steamer berthed alongside and which, said Tom, reminded him of the Irish Rose on which he had sailed to Nova Scotia.

"Where's that Da?"  
"A very long way from here son".

"When did yous go there, Da?"  
"A while ago now son". Tom hugged Danny to him. He smiled at Sybil as they exchanged meaningful glances; it was a time in their lives, like the recent encounter with Fergal out at Skerries, that was best left in the past. Perhaps, when Danny and Saiorse were older...

Later that day, before they returned to the hotel, they went in search of Toomey's garage from where Tom had arranged the use of another motor, with the owner, a Mr. Liam Toomey, promising faithfully that the red, bull nosed Morris would be at the hotel early the next morning. Glancing over to where with the children, Sybil stood quietly in the sunlight by the open doors to the garage, he touched his cap respectfully, then shook hands with Tom.

"Although, not too early for sure. Lucky devil!" he said softly as, by now out of earshot, he watched the Bransons disappear out of sight around the corner of the sunlit street.

Later, at the hotel, after supper was over, back upstairs in the privacy of their room, while Sybil readied the children for bed, Tom took a bath and then while Sybil bathed, he read Danny and Saiorse a story. Whatever the febrile imaginings of Mr. Toomey, that night, after the two children had drifted off to sleep, equally worn out by the long train journey and by the invigorating sea air, almost the very moment their heads touched their pillows, snuggled together in each other's arms, Tom and Sybil also fell fast asleep, while outside a full moon arose, bathing the by now silent streets of Bantry with an ethereal, silvery glow.

The following morning, after breakfast, they set off in the Morris following the coast road ever westwards, around the wide sweep of Bantry Bay, on through Ballylickey, Glengarriff and Adrigole, bound for Castletownbere where Tom had booked the family into the Berehaven Hotel. They saw few other motors, with the narrow, twisting road, bounded on either side by stone walls, being mostly deserted, save for donkey carts taking produce to market and a herd of black cattle being driven along towards Ballylickey, the rugged, mountain landscape dotted with sheep.

The day grew ever warmer and, as the hot July sun climbed ever higher into the sky, shortly after they had passed through Adrigole, Tom turned the motor to the left, slowing the Morris almost to a crawl as they bumped along a rough track which led downwards to the north shore of the bay. And it was here, in this beautiful, remote spot, while Danny and Saiorse played happily on the white sands of the beach below the village and Tom, stripped to the waist, with his trousers rolled up, barefoot, stood at the water's edge, that, with her Box Brownie, Sybil had taken the very first of those photographs and which, some three years later, with all of them by now safely pasted into the leather bound album then lying in her lap, she had pointed out to Tom on that summer's afternoon, seated beneath the apple tree in the back garden of their home in Idrone Terrace.

That day below Adrigole, soon, other photographs followed: of a smiling, sunburned Tom standing down by the sea, Tom and Danny searching in the nearby rock pools for crabs, Danny and Tom building a sandcastle and which Danny had then swiftly demolished by jumping on it, so that its owner could not oppress the poor.

"Who suggested that I wonder?" had asked Sybil with a smile.

Further photographs, among them Sybil with Saiorse paddling in the sea, Sybil standing on her own, these pictures taken by Tom, a smiling Danny in his striped bathing suit buried in sand from the demolished castle presided over by a triumphant Tom, Saiorse held in Tom's arms, Tom attempting a handstand and failing miserably, Sybil and Tom together, and finally a snap of the whole family standing on the shore, these last two photographs taken for the Bransons by a friendly old fisherman.

With Canty's Hotel back in Bantry having provided them with a packed wicker luncheon hamper and with the children enjoying themselves so much, with no call upon their time, they spent the rest of that day down there on the beach midst the picturesque, wild beauty of the Beara Peninsula. Much later, in fact, shortly after six o'clock that evening, Tom finally brought the Morris to a stand outside the Berehaven Hotel in the little port of Castletownbere. Turning in his seat he smiled, at the sight of darling Sybil and their two children fast asleep on the back seat of the motor.

The next morning, after they had taken the children up to see the ivy clad, grass grown fragmentary remains of Dunboy Castle, which until its destruction during the reign of Elizabeth I, had once defended the harbour of Berehaven, the Bransons set out for Allihies.

And, as the Morris climbed steadily away from Castletownbere, below, out in the wide, blue, sparkling waters of the immense bay, backed by the stark grandeur of the Slieve Miskish Mountains, protected by several forts and batteries, grey warships of the Royal Navy lay riding at anchor; a brooding, threatening presence midst all the natural beauty hereabouts and another reminder, if any at all was needed, that between the Irish Free State and Great Britain, there still remained, as yet, unfinished business.

* * *

**Allihies, Beara Peninsula, County Cork, Irish Free State, July 1924.**

As they walked together in the direction of the reed thatched cottage, the breeze which blew towards them was from off the sea and tinged with salt.

"Is it very much as you remember? Sybil asked softly, searching his much-loved face.

"To be sure," replied Tom shading his eyes from the brightness of the sun and noting at the same time and with satisfaction that the lichen encrusted dry stone wall which he had rebuilt some three years ago was still standing. Here in this remote place, where time dripped slow, very little changed. Indeed, some would say nothing ever did.

He had parked the Morris where the un-metalled lane finally petered out completely and became unfit for the passage of the motor. So now, with young Danny running on ahead, arm in arm with Sybil, Tom holding fast to Saiorse's hand, the three of them walked slowly between thorn hedges ablaze with scarlet fuschias, along the rough stone track which led down a slight slope and towards the distant house. A faint curl of smoke showed at the lip of the chimney, then drifted languidly up into the cloudless sky, washing hung on the line and chickens clucked and scratched in the dirt.

Since he had regained his memory and from even before they had returned here to Ireland, over the intervening three years, Tom had written regularly to Mrs O'Sullivan, telling her of his family, enclosing photographs of both Sybil and their children and imparting all his news. For her part, her burgeoning friendship with Tom Branson, the well-known and respected journalist up there in Dublin, had become widely known in these parts; a source of some pride down at the bar in Allihies, notwithstanding the fact that the journalist in question was undeniably a jackeen.

Having come in through the back door of the cottage, with the sun behind her, it was she who saw him first, through the open window and, having done so, she moved to stand silently in the front doorway beneath its sagging lintel, watching as the little family drew ever closer; the young boy running on ahead in front of the others. She waited too, while the man walked slowly towards her across the farmyard as the woman and the two children now remained where they were, a short way off, standing beside the rickety gate.

Moments later and he had come to a stand before her; stood her scrutiny and waited, the bright sunlight catching a gleam of gold in his fair hair. Back then, she had thought him handsome and now, seeing him before her once again, restored to both health and life, she knew that neither eyes nor memory had deceived her.

"So, you've come back," she said at length.

"To be sure. Didn't I say that I would?" He grinned happily. Still he waited.

She smiled and opened wide her arms.

* * *

In the warmth of the afternoon sunshine and with a cup of tea balanced carefully in her lap, Sybil sat companionably beside Mrs. O'Sullivan on the wooden bench outside the front of the whitewashed cottage. Across the farmyard, having taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, his thumbs thrust deep into the pockets of his waistcoat, happy, relaxed and sunburned, Tom stood keeping a watchful eye on both of the children as Danny contented himself wandering in and out of the ramshackle range of outbuildings filling his pockets with all manner of odds and ends, while Saiorse tried repeatedly, albeit unsuccessfully, to make friends with the chickens.

"He looks very well now for sure," observed Mrs. O'Sullivan nodding her head slowly in the direction of Tom.

"Yes, he does, doesn't he? And... I have you alone to thank for that". Sybil turned her head. "Thank you... from the bottom of my heart... for all that you did for him".

"Think nothing of it!"

Sybil shook her head vehemently.

"Oh, but I do! Mrs. O'Sullivan, when my husband was rescued from the mine and then brought here, if you hadn't taken such very good care of him, I shudder to think what might have…"

"There now". The older woman patted Sybil's knee reassuringly.

"Do you know who it was who found him? Were they local men? If so, while we're here, I should very much like to thank them for what they did".

Mrs. O'Sullivan shook her head.

"All that belongs in the past. Leave it so for sure".

"But surely…"

"There are some hereabouts who may not be as well disposed towards your husband as those who found and then brought him here".

"Even so, I…"

"I believe he told you that Seamus, my youngest boy, died out there, in France?"

Sybil nodded, recalling what Tom had said to her when he had spoken of Mrs. O'Sullivan's three sons; remembered also the photograph she had seen this afternoon hanging over the fireplace inside the cottage behind her with the fading, framed printed citation beneath it. Knew too that there were many here in the Free State who viewed all those who had volunteered for King and Country and had then gone off to fight and die in the trenches, as traitors. She knew also that many of those who had returned home here to what was then Ireland and part of the British Empire now suffered hatred and ostracism and that some had moved away to find a new life elsewhere in other countries and where they were not looked upon as pariahs. She saw Mrs. O'Sullivan nod her head and with her next words, it seemed that somehow she had sensed what it was that Sybil was thinking.

"Yes, but…"

"My dear girl, the plain simple truth is that we Irish have a cursed capacity for suffering". The older women paused. "Seamus was the best of them; my other two boys would have no part in fighting for the British and now..." Again she paused. "Michael, he's the eldest, was a gamekeeper for the Puxleys. No doubt you saw their house? Or rather, what's left of it down there in Castletownbere?"

"Yes" Sybil remembered seeing the blackened shell of a huge house down by the north shore of Bantry Bay and which Tom had said had been burned by the IRA back in the summer of 1921.

"When the house was fired, Michael lost his job". Again she paused; then said levelly: "Patrick, his younger brother, was one of those that set light to it. And then, when independence came, Michael joined the National Army and supported the Treaty. Patrick fought for the Republicans. They say he was involved in the killing of two Garda officers down there in Bantry and now he and the others are on the run from the Free Staters. From what I've heard tell, he's trying to get passage over to America. Michael is one of those out looking for him". She sighed, sat gazing into the middle distance.

"I'm so very, very sorry," said Sybil. However commonplace, there seemed little else that she could say.

"Thank you my dear, for sure. For centuries here in Ireland we've blamed many others for all of our misfortunes; mostly and I mean no offence, the British. And, what do we do the moment they're gone? We turn on ourselves, that's what".

Sybil stared down at the ground; what Mrs. O'Sullivan had said was true enough and it was now that she recalled a heated argument she and Tom had several months earlier on more or less the very same subject, about what the future held in store for Ireland, now that the British had finally left.

* * *

"_The __**trouble**__, as you call it, Tom, is that the Irish never seem to know what they want!"_

_For his part, although he had always readily acknowledged Sybil's right to speak her own mind, not of course that she needed any encouragement from him to do so, Tom had been stunned by the vehemence of her outburst. It seemed that even now after five years of marriage she could still surprise him… and not only in bed._

"_**What**__? Now, wait just a minute, Sybil! How on earth…"_

"_You can't go on blaming the British for all of the problems over here in Ireland, Tom; it isn't fair and what's more, it isn't true! As well you know!"_

* * *

"Nonetheless, he's a very fine man. A very good man," observed the kindly Mrs. O'Sullivan; seemingly once again to have read Sybil's innermost thoughts.

"He is indeed," agreed Sybil passionately.

"And he loves you very much".

"Is it really that obvious?"

"For sure!" Mrs. O' Sullivan smiled. "My dear, you only have to see how he looks at you; the way he's looking at you now".

Sybil glanced up to see that Tom's blue eyes were upon her; saw him wink and grin broadly. Sybil smiled and waved her hand in happy acknowledgement.

"And truthfully now, your father's an English lord?"

Sybil nodded.

"The earl of Grantham; my parents live in Yorkshire, at Downton Abbey. It was where we met, while Tom was in service. He was my family's chauffeur".

"So he told me, in one of his letters. And your parents, did they approve?"  
"No, at least not to begin with and neither did my sisters, but like you, they all now see the true worth in him; love him dearly. Not of course that my father would ever admit that!"

"And you?"  
"He means everything to me," said Sybil making unconscious use of the very same words she had spoken some five years ago, to Ma, on her first evening here in Ireland.

"That's only as it should be. And one thing more…"  
"Yes?"

"Don't linger here in Beara. There are some wounds that time doesn't heal".

A short while later and with heartfelt promises that one day they would return, Mrs. O'Sullivan stood at the door of the cottage to watch the Bransons go.

As for the photograph, taken on Sybil's camera by the village postman from Allihies, of Mrs. O'Sullivan and the Bransons standing outside her cottage, after their return to Dublin, having arranged for a copy to be posted to her, Tom had the original framed and kept it in pride of place on his desk at home for the rest of his life.

They took her kindly meant warning to heart and, instead of staying the night at Castletownbere as they had intended, at Sybil's insistence, Tom drove straight on to Bantry, stopping once again at Cantry's Hotel. The following morning they caught the express to Cork where they changed trains and later that same day found them all safely back in Dublin.

Some months later, in December 1924, close to Allihies, with soldiers of the Free State army having surrounded the abandoned mine workings where several republicans had been found holed up, a fierce gun battle had then ensued, with both sides sustaining casualties. By a cruel twist of irony, the abandoned mine had once belonged to the Puxley family. Thereafter, following their surrender, those republicans who had survived were taken under armed guard to Cork, among them, Patrick O'Sullivan aged twenty eight and who, a month later, was hanged in Mountjoy Gaol in Dublin for his part in the murder of the two police officers in Bantry.

Three weeks earlier, in the military hospital in Cork, aged thirty, Sergeant Michael O'Sullivan of the National Army died in hospital at the former Victoria Barracks, of wounds sustained in the fight at the old Puxley mine.

A month later, Mrs. O'Sullivan was laid to rest on a windswept hillside in the little cemetery beside the small ruined church at Kilcatherine, overlooking the sea. On the Death Certificate, the cause of her demise was given as pneumonia but privately it was said locally that she had died of a broken heart. It was only when, following their return home to Dublin from Downton where they had been spending Christmas, with his letters to her continuing to go unanswered, that belatedly, Tom Branson found out the sad truth of what had happened.

And with no-one left to pay for a headstone, with Sybil's full agreement, it was Tom who provided the necessary monies for one to be erected.

* * *

**Skerries House, County Cork, Irish Free State, October 1924.**

Two months earlier, in the pouring rain, beside the burnt out ruins of Skerries House, a young man stood bareheaded by a grave. He had been married the previous day. Now, shortly before he and Margarethe both sailed from Cobh on board the SS Seydlitz bound for Bremen in Germany, while his wife waited for him in the motor, standing by his mother's grave, Fergal swore vengeance on Tom Branson and all he held most dear. It was a heartfelt promise; one which he had every intention of keeping and which, eight years hence, would lead to a terrifying denouement upon the Ponte Vecchio Bridge in Florence.

**Author's Note:**

The position in Ireland at this time was as is described.

As with the assassination of President Kennedy, there are all manner of theories as to why Michael Collins was murdered and speculation continues as to whether or not de Valera knew of the planned ambush on the military convoy in which Collins was travelling or indeed even sanctioned it.

During the the Great War two internment camps, one for prisoners of war and another for enemy aliens, were established on the Isle of Man.

Vickery's Hotel was blown up by the IRA and for the reason given. In 1924, the then owner, Mrs. Vickery, had just received compensation to pay for the rebuilding of the hotel. The description of its amenities is taken from an earlier guide.

Following the Anglo-Irish Treaty, three deep water ports on the coast of the Irish Free State - Berehaven, Queenstown and Lough Swilly - were retained by Great Britain for use by the Royal Navy. The ports eventually passed into Irish control in 1938.

Jackeen - a rather unpleasant term used to describe someone from Dublin by those living elsewhere in Ireland.

Until very recently those 200,000 Irishmen who, during the Great War, served in the British Army and of whom some 50,000 were killed, were officially forgotten by a post-independence Ireland. Many of the men who had fought and survived to tell the tale, the living embodiment of an inconvenient truth, decided to leave the country of their birth in which they found themselves no longer welcome simply because they had served in the British Army. The divisions caused in Ireland by the Irish Civil War also ran very deep and were equally long-lasting. It is all of this that I have tried to encapsulate in the sad tale of the fictitious Mrs. O'Sullivan and her three sons.

The family that owned Puxley Mansion made their fortune out of copper mining. In June 1921 the house was indeed burnt out by the IRA. It remained in ruins until a few years ago when it was bought and restored with the aim that it should become Ireland's first five star hotel. Unfortunately, with work almost complete, the money ran out and at the moment the newly restored mansion remains boarded up.

The little ruined church at Kilcatherine and its cemetery also exist, occupying a beautiful spot on the Beara Peninsula overlooking Coulagh Bay.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

A Deadly Summer Part I

**Cottage Hospital, Downton, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, July 1929.**

They were operating now.

Outside, here, in the narrow, dimly-lit, whitewashed corridor, with his hands clasped tightly together behind his back, he was pacing the floor as far as the firmly closed door where, each time he reached it, he turned and then retraced his steps; to and fro, to and fro. At length, he came to a stand, directly in front of where she was seated, on the hard, unforgiving, wooden bench; stood looking down at her, silently willing her to raise her head and meet his gaze although she did not deign to do so.

The silence between them lengthened.

"If the bleeding doesn't stop..." he began; his voice quavering with a mixture of both fear and emotion. Of the two of them he was, at least in the present circumstances, by far the more demonstrative of his innermost feelings; wore his heart on his sleeve and didn't care if anyone saw that he did.

"It **will**. It **must,**" she said; nonetheless still not daring to meet the incisiveness of his penetrating gaze. Whatever her own feelings, her own misgivings, well aware of what could happen, what might happen, what in all probability would happen, she knew that one of them had to stay calm. So now, with her head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap, instead, she stared intently down at the brown linoleum covering the floor of the passage.

"The doctor mentioned the sub... something or other" He continued to look questioningly down at her, earnestly seeking confirmation of what he had been told.

"The sub-clavian artery," she said wearily, still without raising her head. Then continued in the same monotone almost as if she was quoting from a medical text book: "It feeds the brachial artery, the main artery of the arm, as well as the brachial plexus, the large bundle of nerves that control the movement of the arm." she said dispassionately.

"I see... Have you seen this kind of... What I mean is..."  
"Have... have I seen injuries like this before? Then, yes, many times... during the war".

"And..."

"And?" It was now that slowly she raised her head; looked questioningly up at him.

"I..."

She saw him clasp his hands tightly together, as if in silent prayer.

"What you're asking me for ... is a prognosis... on the chances of his survival, on the likelihood of his recovery".

"I suppose so..."  
"You suppose so?"  
"I... " He hesitated, half fearful as to just what her response might be. She saw him swallow hard before nodding his head.

"Yes".  
"It all rather depends..."  
"Depends on what?"

"If there is any other damage..."  
"**Other **damage?"

"To the nerves, to the bone..."

She saw him blanch; bite his lower lip so hard that he drew blood.

"But who ever would have done such a thing?"

"And to..."

"It makes no sense..."

The door to the operating theatre opened and the surgeon came out.

"I'm so very sorry..."

* * *

**Downton Abbey, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, July 1929.**

After a night of disturbing dreams, Sybil had awoken both with a start and to bright sunlight. As her eyes became accustomed to the harsh glare of the morning daylight, glancing across at the ornate ormolu clock standing on the mantelpiece and ticking quietly, she saw, and with initial incredulity, that the time showing on its face was half past seven; although there was no doubting that this was indeed correct.

Scattered though out the main rooms and family bedrooms, here at Downton the clocks came in all different shapes and sizes and in total numbered some fifty. Sybil knew this to be so as, years ago, she had once asked Carson precisely just how many of them there were and which having been informed of the number, found out were then the old butler's responsibility both to wind and keep maintained in working order and were, he had informed her, always wound once a week and on the same day. Since Carson's retirement this duty had fallen on his successor Barrow and Sybil had no reason to suppose that he was any less than punctilious in the performance of this aspect of his many and varied duties than had been his august predecessor.

Back across the Irish Sea, in Dublin, in their home on Idrone Terrace, there were but three clocks; one on the wall in the kitchen, and one each on the mantelpieces in the sitting room and Tom and Sybil's bedroom, this particular clock having been one of the few items Sybil had insisted be saved from the flames on that now long gone night some eight years ago when Skerries House had been set ablaze by the IRA. The duty of keeping the three clocks in the Branson household running had fallen initially to Tom and now, with his love of all things mechanical, albeit yet supervised by his Da, to young Danny; a duty which even at the tender age of ten years old he took very seriously indeed.

And, also in Dublin, except on Sundays and then rarely, neither Sybil nor Tom ever slept in; not simply because of the intense physical need they still had for each other, often even in the morning, but with the demands made upon them by their three children and their respective jobs, the more so since this year since Tom had been appointed Deputy Editor at the Independent and she had become a matron at the Coombe.

It was now, rolling over, with that same physical need uppermost in her mind that, to her surprise, Sybil found Tom's side of the bed to be empty. For a moment she felt both cheated and lonely and then remembered that last night he had told her that both he and Matthew were taking the early morning train into York; would not be back until later that afternoon.

Reassured, Sybil now sat up, plumped the pillows behind her, stretched contentedly and yawned. Glancing around at what had been her bedroom long before she and Tom ever met, let alone fell in love and married, it dawned on Sybil that even now, in 1929, despite what was happening out there in the wider world beyond the park gates of the Downton Abbey estate, the St. Valentine's Day Massacre in the United States, the opening of the newly restored General Post Office in Dublin by the President of the Executive Council of the Free State, the Graf Zeppelin flying from Friedrichshafen to the eastern Mediterranean and which had been photographed by Edith as it had flown high over Palestine, let alone the General Election held in the United Kingdom and resulting in the formation of a Labour government, here in the great house, nothing ever changed. Why, in this very room, the wallpaper, the furnishings and even the heavy curtains were exactly the same as they had been back in 1914.

Looking towards the open window Sybil saw that it promised to be another beautiful day. In the ensuing silence she heard hushed voices outside in the corridor and recognising them immediately, she smiled broadly. A moment later and there came a light knock at the door.

"Come in, my darlings".

Outside in the passage, on hearing the sweet sound of their beloved mother's voice, the three young children needed no further prompting. The door swung wide and both Danny and Saiorse, with little Bobby between them, bounded into the bedroom. Having helped their younger brother up onto the bed, the two older children joined him, snuggling down close alongside their mother.

A welter of both cuddles and soft kisses followed, just as they did each and every morning when they were all at home in Blackrock in Dublin. Showing physical affection was something that came naturally to everyone in the Branson household, not only both to Tom and Sybil but also to their children, nurtured as they had been in a heady atmosphere of deep and abiding love. This morning, however, one of the family's members was conspicuous by his absence and it was this fact that Saiorse now addressed.

"Ma, where's Da?"

"He left early this morning, darling. Along with Uncle Matthew. To go into York".

"What for, Ma?" asked Danny.  
"I don't know, darling," said Sybil, stroking his hair while hugging little Bobby to her. Of her and Tom's three children, their youngest was the one who in looks most closely resembled his father. "At least, not exactly. From what I recall, your uncle said something last night about going to the bank. So I suppose it must be to do with the estate".

"The bank? Is that like the one on St. Stephen's Green?" asked Saiorse brightly.

"Nowhere near as grand as that, darling, but something similar, yes".  
"When will they be back?" asked Danny.

"Some time later this afternoon".

"Great! Da promised that Grandps, Uncle Matthew and he would then play cricket with both Rob and me!" Danny grinned excitedly.

* * *

**Downton Abbey, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, August 1928.**

Danny's interest in cricket harked back to the previous year, 1928, when and for the first time ever, the summer visit of the Bransons to Downton Abbey coincided with the annual House v. Village Cricket Match. For all Matthew and Tom's heartfelt protestations of innocence, both of them insisting that it was purely a fortuitous occurrence, privately Mary and Sybil were firmly of the opinion that between them, "the boys" had engineered the whole thing.

Be that as it may, not only having played cricket for his public school but also having captained its First XI and with his father-in-law Robert beginning increasingly to feel his age, it was something of a foregone conclusion that Matthew would assume the captaincy of the house team. Nonetheless, the earl of Grantham still insisted in continuing to play his part in the proceedings, by proposing that this year he assume the duties as scorer previously ably performed for the last fifty years by old George Mainwaring but who, at eighty seven, was now getting on and whose eyesight, understandably, was not what it had once been.

Nonetheless, down in the village, Robert's proposed, seemingly innocuous assumption of the role of scorer for the match was met with deep suspicion, the reason for which was not hard to fathom. In this regard, it should be borne in mind that the 1927 cricket match had turned out to be a very close run thing indeed, with the village fielding a very strong side and the house team only winning by the slenderest of margins.

And when, that autumn, down at the Grantham Arms, during the defeated village team's lengthy post-match analysis of what had gone wrong that summer, all became aware of the fact that in his old age dear old George had become exceedingly partial to a mug or two of cider, "to lubricate the throat", citing the fact that out there on the cricket field it was "very hot and stuffy" in the scorer's hut, questions had inevitably arisen as to the accuracy of the scoring and therefore the final result of the match. And now this year, here was the earl of Grantham blithely offering to assume the role of scorer!

Nine years after the end of the Great War, deference to the established social order was no longer what it had once been and, admittedly fortified by their consumption of ale, more than one of the losing side now did what they would once never have done and loudly raised the thorny question of Robert's impartiality. All this duly reached the ears of Thomas Barrow. Never one to miss the opportunity of being the bearer of bad tidings, he had informed the earl of Grantham as to what had occurred, if for no other reason than to see the effect it produced upon his employer.

As might have been expected, Robert, understandably, had been exceedingly hurt; that his impartiality should ever be brought into question was not to be borne and not being in the best of health himself and to Cora's deep consternation thereafter he became exceedingly peevish and morose. And now, some months later, with this year's match almost upon them, the finding of someone to act as scorer who was deemed acceptable both to the village and to the great house as yet remained unresolved.

When, in August 1928, the Bransons had arrived at Downton Abbey for the start of their summer holiday here in Yorkshire, Robert was still smarting from what he saw as the wholly unjustified slur on his good name. Both Tom and Sybil had noticed immediately that Robert seemed somewhat out of sorts and that for once he was not even cheered by the arrival of his grandchildren from Dublin who, following the arrival the previous year of young Bobby aged all of but a year, named for his English grandfather and whom the earl of Grantham had not yet met, now numbered three. However, it was not until shortly before dinner on that very first evening that, having taken him aside for a quiet word, having duly sworn him to secrecy, that Tom had learned from his mother-in-law what it was that had happened to put Robert so out of sorts.

Dinner that evening was somewhat of a sombre affair, with Robert exceedingly morose, the atmosphere around the dining table made even more dismal by the fact that when Matthew had asked Tom if he would play for the house team, rather surprisingly, his brother-in-law had equivocated. Citing the fact that although he had played cricket at his school in Dublin, Tom said it was all a very long time ago and besides which, as the Bransons were not resident at Downton, in all honesty, it would, he said, be singularly inappropriate for him to play for the house team.

Thereafter, once dinner was over, saying he felt very tired, Robert had made his excuses and taken himself off to bed. Then, curious to relate, while Cora, Mary and Sybil were gathering in the Drawing Room for coffee, Tom had declined to play Matthew at billiards; had, instead, mysteriously taken himself off on his own, prompting Mary, when they all learned from Matthew of what had happened, to ask Sybil if everything was all right between the two of them.

"Yes, why on earth shouldn't it be?" replied Sybil defensively and Mary felt it wiser not to press any further in this regard.

"**I** haven't upset him, have I?" asked Matthew who, unexpectedly left to his own devices, had joined the ladies in the Drawing Room.

"**You**? Upset** Tom**? No, of course not! Why, whatever gave you that idea? When we're at home he often takes himself off on his own for a stroll along the sea wall just to think," laughed Sybil.

"Well, be that as it may, he's certainly got some Irish bee in his bonnet! In all the years we've known each other, he's never once turned down the chance of a game of billiards! No doubt he'll enlighten us on his return," chuckled Matthew.

But in that they were all destined to be sorely disappointed.

As it was, Tom did not return to the house until long after everyone else had gone to bed and even then, despite Sybil doing her amorous best to coax it out of him, while responding with obvious ardour to her physical need of him,Tom steadfastly had refused to say where it was he had been.

Oddly enough, that evening, the only one of the family who had seemed singularly unconcerned by Tom's seemingly inexplicable disappearance was Cora and for the very good reason that from the conversation she had with him just before dinner, she alone knew just where it was that her handsome Irish son-in-law had gone and why. Not that she chose to vouchsafe this information to the rest of them.

His mother-in-law apart, where in fact it was that Tom had been would have remained a mystery to them all, had it not been for the ever watchful eyes of Thomas Barrow who, at the very time that Tom himself was marching briskly down the High Street, was on his way back up to the house from an exceedingly convivial day spent with a merchant seaman in a second rate hotel room in York and who had happened to see Tom Branson turn in at the door of the Grantham Arms.

* * *

The following morning, at breakfast, and before Tom himself had come downstairs to join both Matthew and their father-in-law, Barrow had, seemingly innocuously and merely in passing, made mention of the fact.

"What's this I hear about you going down to the pub last night?" Matthew had asked when Tom had appeared, unaccountably late for breakfast.

"Pub? Oh, that..." Tom was helping himself to a generous helping of eggs, bacon and mushrooms from out of the battery of silver salvers placed on top of the mahogany buffet.

"Yes, **that**. Barrow says he saw you going into the Arms". Laying aside his copy of the Times, Robert lofted a questioning brow as Tom seated himself at the dining table.

Now, if looks could indeed kill, at this point, the end of Barrow's time on earth would indeed have come and he would have been stretched out both cold and lifeless on the floor of the room. Instead, Tom had to content himself with shooting Barrow a mutinous look while the butler remained impassively smug and silent.

"Er... tactics," offered Tom hesitantly and between mouthfuls of egg, bacon and mushrooms.

"Tactics?" chorused both Robert and Matthew, amazed.

"Mm, to do with the match". Tom ducked his head and applied himself with gusto to his breakfast.

The one with the other, Robert and Matthew now exchanged surprised looks.

"The cricket match?" asked Matthew crisply and buttering a piece of toast.

"Is there another?" asked Tom affably enough and now looking as equally smug as his would-be nemesis Barrow.

"But you said you wouldn't play..." began Robert, obviously surprised by what he was hearing.

"Indeed I did," offered Tom.

"Then..."  
"What I actually said, was that I didn't think it right that I played for the house," explained Tom patiently and now taking a sip of tea.

"And?" asked Matthew, realisation suddenly dawning on him as to just where this conversation might be leading. His brother-in-law's next words served only to confirm his suspicions.

"So, I've offered my services to the village team instead," said Tom nonchalantly. "They've accepted... and asked me to be their captain".

"**You've done what**? **Captain**? **Of the village team**?" queried Robert utterly astounded and for a moment seriously doubting the evidence of his own ears. He set down his tea cup with a clatter in its saucer.

In the shadows, over by the door, busying himself with the silver salvers on the buffet, Barrow suppressed the urge to grin. He was enjoying all of this immeasurably.

"**You can't have**!" asserted Matthew equally aghast at what he was hearing but then, realising that Tom was in deadly earnest, added more calmly: "Why on earth would you do that?"

"Because, old chap, I really can't play for the house team".  
"But you're part of **this** family!" exclaimed Matthew. He shook his head in seeming disbelief.

"By marriage, yes but, unlike you, not by birth".

"What difference does that make? You're a very dearly loved member of this family and there's an end of it!"growled Robert, again not believing the evidence of his own ears, this time as to what he himself had just said.

Tom blushed.

He smiled and promptly set down his tea cup, reflecting silently just how far it was they had all come in the nine years which had elapsed since that never-to-be-forgotten confrontation in the Drawing Room here at Downton Abbey when, before the assembled, startled family, he and Sybil had announced their intention to marry, to work in Ireland and, God willing, to raise children of their own, aspirations in which both of them had now succeeded ... and beyond their wildest dreams.

"Thank you for those kind words, Robert. This, I assure you..." Tom paused, for once, uncharacteristically, lost for what he was trying to say. His father-in-law's comments had moved him deeply. "This... What I mean is... This has as much to do with you, as it has to do with me. Let me try to explain..."  
"I don't see how my boy..." began the earl of Grantham, his anger beginning rapidly to cool. It was the first time he had openly expressed what the female members of his family had long since freely admitted; their open and unequivocal love for this young Irishman.

"What I mean is, that being Irish, I genuinely wouldn't feel right playing for the house and what with you fielding such a strong team already, including Mr. Barrow here" - Tom jabbed his thumb in the direction of the silent form of the butler - "and whose skill with the bat is known to one and all at Downton, both here and in the village, I suppose I feel a natural empathy for the underdog. Does that surprise you?"

Over by the buffet and now with his back to those seated at the dining table, Barrow permitted himself the luxury of a smug, self-satisfied smile.

"Well I never..." began Robert. "But, knowing you as I do, Tom, I have to confess that no, it doesn't".

"Besides which, I insisted that if I agreed to take on the captaincy of the village side, then they had to accept my terms for doing so".

"Which were?" asked Matthew somewhat puzzled.

"Nothing that need unduly concern you, old boy!" Tom grinned. "After all, as captain of the other side, do you really think I'm going to tell you our plan of campaign?" He chuckled; then relented. "No, merely that they accept my judgement on certain issues... as did the other boys in the team, when I was at school".

"At school," echoed Matthew, another awful suspicion now beginning to take shape in his mind. "You said you played cricket?"  
Tom nodded.

"When I was at Blackrock College, yes. What of it?"

"If you expected the other boys to accept your judgement, then that would mean you were..."  
"Captain... of my year, yes". Tom smiled. "Mind you, I was only eleven..."

"Just... just how good a cricketer are you?" interrupted Matthew.  
"Ah!" Tom tapped the side of his nose. "That would be giving too much away! Anyway it was all a very long time ago. But..." He grinned. "Ask me no secrets and I'll tell you no lies! Let's leave it at that!"

Matthew felt the muscles of his stomach suddenly tighten. Long ago, he had found out that there was no use whatsoever trying to wheedle information out of Tom when he was unprepared to volunteer it; one might as well try and coax blood out of the proverbial stone. Matthew grimaced; for some strange reason, which he could not yet fathom, he had the oddest feeling that this year's cricket match might not be the walk over that both he and the rest of them who made up the house team had blithely assumed it would be.

"And what else?" asked Robert. "You said that this concerned me. I don't see how it..."

Tom nodded.

"Oh, didn't I say?" He paused and then smiled. "I made my acceptance of the captaincy conditional upon the village team agreeing to you being appointed scorer for the match, both for this year and hereafter. Indeed for as long as you feel able to continue. And I made it clear to Ted Ackroyd and everyone else down there at the Arms that I wouldn't hear another word said that questioned your impartiality. A more honourable man I have yet to meet. And I told them so, for sure".

Unwittingly, Tom was echoing more or less the very same words that had been used about himself some six years earlier, in 1922, by the late Michael Collins. Nonetheless, Tom meant every word he said, for both he and his father-in-law had come a very long way in their relationship since they had metaphorically crossed swords back in 1919.

Clearly moved by what he had just heard, Robert's eyes misted.

"I don't know what..."

Tom cut him off.

"And so that you don't have to keep going outside in the heat to alter the score, I had them agree to you having the services of two youngsters to make the job less arduous for you".

"Youngsters? In God's Name, who?"

"Who the hell do you think? Danny and Rob, that's who".

"And will they?"

Tom raised his eyes heavenward in disbelief.

"Jaysus, Robert! Honestly! Don't you know by now just how much they both love you? Of course they will! They'll be delighted. In fact, I've already asked them. Up there in the nursery. That's why I was late down to breakfast".  
"Well, I don't know what to say..." Robert's voice cracked with emotion.

Fortunately for all concerned, at that precise moment, the door burst open and both Danny and young Robert bounded into the Dining Room. Of course, years ago, such a thing would never have happened; it would not have been tolerated. Then, children were seen and not heard and neither Robert himself when a boy, nor indeed any of his daughters as children, would have ever dared to do such a thing.

But times had changed and, reflected the earl of Grantham, decidedly for the better. While Matthew and Tom exchanged amused glances, the two boys ran happily over to where their grandfather was seated.

"Grandps! Grandps! Has Da told you? We're going to help you score for the cricket match!" The two boys jigged excitedly up and down beside their grandfather. Now and in a rare display of open affection, his eyes shining, the earl of Grantham hugged his two eldest grandsons tightly to him.

"Yes, so I hear. Your Da's just told me!" Robert grinned at his two sons-in-law.

"Uncle Tom said you're going to teach us, Grandps!" This from young Robert.

"Did he, indeed?" The earl of Grantham smiled broadly at the two boys.

"Yes, he did!"

"If your Uncle Tom said so, then so be it!" Robert ghosted a smile at Tom.

"When, Grandps, when?" implored Danny.

"Well," replied his grandfather and with a merry twinkle in his eye, "with the match only a week or so away, there's not a moment to lose. So, how about we make a start this very morning, after breakfast?"

A short while later, flanked by two of her daughters and both her sons-in-law, her eyes glistening, Cora stood at the window and watched discretely from the Drawing Room. Before her, outside in the glorious morning sunshine, hand in hand with Danny and Robert, with Anubis the black Labrador, a birthday present from absent Edith and a much-loved successor to dear old Isis romping along beside them, with his good humour now restored her husband was striding cheerfully and purposefully across the gravel of the forecourt and towards the distant cricket pavilion which lay at the far end of the large meadow, close to Home Farm.

Cora smiled.

During the past forty or so years of their marriage, each and every day she had watched Robert as he set off on his daily rounds about the estate but, she thought, never with a greater sense of conviction and hope for the future than on this bright summer's morn, here in August 1928.

**Author's Note:**

Of the events referred to as occurring in 1929, the Graf Zeppelin did indeed fly over Palestine during its flight to the eastern Mediterranean.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

A Deadly Summer Part II

**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, August 1928.**

At last the day of the long-awaited House v. Village Cricket Match had arrived; the August morning dawning bright and fair, with every prospect that later on that afternoon by the time the match itself began, it would be both hot and sunny. As with the Statute Fair, once again Downton and all the surrounding district could truly be described as being en fête and on this auspicious day, above stairs, here at the abbey, everyone in the family had broken with tradition and risen early.

Not long after breakfast was over, sporting caps, cricket whites and their first pair of long trousers, Danny and Robert had come trooping proudly down the main staircase to find awaiting them in the hall not only as expected their grandfather resplendent in his white linen suit and straw hat but also their grandmother, parents and younger siblings who had also gathered at the front door of the great house to see them go. Forming an impromptu guard of honour, the entire family now watched happily as, along with Anubis, the earl of Grantham and his two eldest grandsons set off down to the cricket pavilion to satisfy themselves that everything was in order for this afternoon's match.

The early morning sun was already hot on their backs as, with their shadows running ahead of them, with Robert and Anubis following in their footsteps, the two boys skipped merrily on along the worn track that led down through the shade of the trees towards the distant cricket field. Even as a young man, the earl of Grantham had never liked discussing medical matters and it was, reflected Robert, just as well that he had said nothing to anyone, not even Cora. The tightness he had felt in his chest the previous evening after dinner seemed to have passed entirely; must, as he suspected initially, have been nothing more than a touch of indigestion; either that or else he had bruised himself more than he had thought when the sailing dinghy had capsized on the lake yesterday afternoon and all three of them had been thrown into the water.

Thinking of the dinghy and yesterday afternoon's mishap on the lake, Robert smiled broadly. Of course, had it not been for a chance remark made earlier to Danny and young Robert down in the village by old Adam Dalby who had once worked for the estate, he himself would never have remembered the Skylark, stored away under a tarpaulin for more than a quarter of a century in the loft above the old boathouse on the far side of the lake. Indeed, it had come as a surprise to the whole family but especially to Danny and to young Robert, to learn that not only did their grandfather know how to sail a boat, but that, in the form of a wooden, 12 foot, clapper built sailing dinghy, there was one stored away up in the loft over the boathouse.

On reflection, it was perhaps not surprising that the dinghy had been overlooked, for the boathouse, disused for many years, had been built for a more elegant era when the present earl of Grantham's grandfather had been alive. Given the care which had been taken in laying up the Skylark, she was in remarkably good condition with only a few minor repairs being necessary and which, once the dinghy had been brought down from the loft, were quickly put in hand by the estate carpenter. Thereafter, with the Skylark fully restored and once more out on the water, Robert had begun teaching his two eldest grandsons how to sail; not, it should be said, without serious misgivings on the part of Cora who, even if Robert would not have it so, realised that while the two boys had undoubtedly given him a new lease of life, her husband was no longer as young as he liked to think he was.

To begin with, however, all went well, with the Skylark and its happy, neophyte crew sailing gaily round the shore and then crossing back and forth to the small island in the middle of the lake, where on one occasion, with a picnic hamper provided by Mrs. White, the boys and their grandfather built a camp fire and had a feast fit for a king. It was hard to tell who enjoyed these excursions more: Robert or his grandsons. And then, yesterday, on their way back from the island, had come the mishap that Cora had feared. A sudden gust of wind had caused the Skylark to heel violently to port and then capsize, with Robert and the two boys being flung into the water. Fortunately this occurred close in to the shore and, with apparently no harm done, under Robert's expert guidance, the Skylark had been swiftly righted and beached about a quarter of a mile below the abbey.

As he walked onwards along the dusty,winding path beneath the trees and towards the cricket field, at the remembrance of the look of utter disbelief he had seen etched on his eldest daughter's face the previous afternoon, Robert chuckled softly to himself. With the Skylark beached, soaked to the skin, Robert and his two young grandsons had squelched their way back up to the abbey; at the same time drawing curious looks from several of the estate workers they had chanced to meet with Robert steadfastly declining all offers of assistance; secretly he was rather enjoying himself! Eventually, having at last reached the great house, the three of them strode purposefully in through the front door, into the high ceilinged hall, leaving in their wake across the hitherto pristine flagstones, a trail of wet footprints and pools of water.

At the time Barrow had been attending to the afternoon post on the hall table while, along with Tom and Sybil, Mary had been standing halfway down the main staircase of the abbey talking with Matthew, to suddenly be confronted by the sight of the aristocratic earl of Grantham and his two young grandsons, soaked to the skin, dripping wet, streaked with mud and looking decidedly bedraggled, walking in unannounced through the front entrance of the abbey. Momentarily, disbelieving the very evidence of their own eyes, everybody seemed to have lost their power of speech. For no-one, not even Mary, said anything at all. Needless to say, things did not remain this way for very long.

"**Robert Crawley**!" Mary thundered, at last regaining the use of her voice.

"Yes?" chorused her father and eldest son in unison, at which Matthew, Tom and Sybil all burst out laughing and even Barrow permitted himself the briefest of smiles.

"No, not **you**, Papa!" exclaimed Mary. "Just what **on earth** have **you** been doing?" She now pointed directly at her young son.

"Well, er... the boat... Mama, er..." stammered young Robert. He flushed red, squirmed and looked nervously up at his grandfather as if desperately seeking some kind of reassurance; smiled gratefully when his namesake did not then disappoint him.

"Don't blame the boys, Mary. It's entirely my fault".

"**Your** fault". Mary sounded thoroughly unconvinced.

"Mea culpa". With droplets of water now beading his brow, her father nodded his wet head and smiled. "You see, I was... captain of the ship". With water pooling at his feet, Robert grinned conspiratorially down at his two grandsons.

"Captain, of the... **ship**?" echoed Mary weakly. "What ship, exactly?"

"The Skylark," explained the earl of Grantham promptly.

"**The Skylark**? Honestly, Papa, it's a wooden dinghy, not the bloody Titanic!"

Beside her, Sybil raised her eyes heavenward and Tom and Matthew sniggered; Sybil silencing them with a single swift glance, with both men now doing their very best to look suitably chastened.

"Well, er...yes. I was at the helm. So I... er... take full responsibility... for what happened. The boat capsized and we..."

"... all got soaking wet, Da" concluded Danny with an impish grin to match that now lit upon his own father's face.

As Barrow disappeared swiftly through the green baize door to summon immediate assistance, while Mary continued to look on with disbelieving incredulity and Tom and Matthew, unable to prevent themselves doing so, now dissolved into fits of helpless laughter, Sybil hurried down the stairs to kneel solicitously in front of the three returning, unabashed and decidedly wet musketeers, if only to reassure herself that her father, son and nephew were all otherwise unharmed. Just then, disturbed by all the commotion, the countess of Grantham hurried out onto the landing. At the bannister rail she paused and looked down into the hall, like Mary, disbelieving the evidence of her own eyes.

"**Robert! What on earth have you**...," began Cora. She both looked and sounded completely horrified.

"Yes?" replied her grandson and husband in tandem and looking up. Here we go again, thought the earl of Grantham.

* * *

Oddly enough, thought Robert, he had never realised until now just how far it was from the house to the cricket field.

"Come on, Grandps!" sang out Danny happily.

"All right, boys, I'm coming," called out Robert just as cheerfully, reflecting that, as he was about so many things, Tom had been right when he had said just how much the earl of Grantham' was loved by his two eldest grandsons. Now, as he watched the two boys, gambolling on ahead of him like a pair of lambs, Robert found himself smiling; for his part, that feeling was entirely reciprocated.

A short while later, Robert and the two boys had reached the cricket field.

Beneath a cloudless blue sky, the stones of the abbey shimmered in the early morning heat haze while the summer air was heavy with the scent of freshly mown grass. Crows cawed in the elm trees edging the field, sheep bleated on the distant hillside, a bee droned fitfully past, butterflies flitted, while here, close to the lake, emerald dragonflies darted hither and thither and a sudden flash of iridescent blue and red marked the passage of a kingfisher bearing aloft in its beak a wriggling silver fish. In the adjacent cornfield, standing atop the clattering Marshall threshing machine, a group of men from off the estate were still busy with the very last of the harvest, the presence of the Aveling and Porter traction engine marked by a column of thick, black smoke.

With Anubis trotting by their side, Robert and the boys made their way slowly over to the centre of the cricket field. Midst a riot of buttercups, daisies and dandelions, the twenty two yard length of the pitch had been freshly mown, rolled. the creases neatly delineated with newly painted white lines and the large sighting screen, also freshly painted, had been wheeled into position behind the boundary. So far, so good. Robert beamed and nodded his head approvingly.

Then, accompanied by the two boys, with the practised eye of a professional, their grandfather began a painstaking examination of the pitch, looking, he said, for what he called undulations and depressions, seeing that the surface was what he termed well-consolidated. Exactly what this all meant remained something of a mystery to both Danny and young Robert, until their grandfather explained that the pitch needed to be firm and level, so that playing upon it conferred no undue advantage or disadvantage to either side. Eventually pronouncing himself well satisfied with what he had found, Robert and the boys set set off over to the cricket pavilion and the adjoining scorer's hut.

Close to the wooden buildings, its finials resplendent with bunting, a splendid canvas marquee had been erected. Inside and, reserved solely for members of the two teams, along with a couple of barrels, one of beer and the other of cider both supplied by the publican of the Grantham Arms, a number of wooden benches and trestle tables had been set up. The latter were covered with snowy white linen cloths upon which servants from the house were presently laying out third best crockery, glasses and cutlery, all sent down from the house by motor; packed in wicker hampers, the food and drink being prepared by Mrs. White and those in the kitchen up the abbey would be arriving later, towards the end of the day's proceedings. In front of the marquee, slatted wooden chairs had been placed to accommodate members of the Crawley family and their friends, while, clustered beneath a grove of nearby oak trees a semi circle of similar chairs. These were reserved for members of the Downton and District Brass Band who, resplendent in their scarlet and blue uniforms would, as was customary on this particular occasion, open this afternoon's proceedings by playing a selection of popular tunes.

So long, as seemed likely, the weather remained fair, all was now ready for the match. Looking down at his grandsons, Robert beamed again. Life was indeed good. It promised to be a wonderful day.

* * *

The House team won the toss and had elected to bat. The score now stood at seventy five for six and still the afternoon sun continued to beat down just as mercilessly. Indeed, to all those out there on the field, it now seemed hotter than ever.

God, if he walks any further, he'll find himself in Timbucktoo, thought Matthew with sweat beading his brow.

Resplendent in his cricket whites, grasping the handle of his bat firmly with both hands, keeping his head still and his eyes level, his knees slightly bent, his feet parallel and placed either side of the crease, Matthew Crawley, captain of the house team glanced down the length of the cricket pitch, towards where Tom Branson captain of the village side was presently still walking away towards the boundary, preparatory to beginning his run up to the bowling crease.

With his back to Matthew and the rest of the field, Tom walked purposefully away from the pitch. Not that he had any intention of walking as far as Timbucktoo; in fact no further than close to where Dick Garforth was standing at Straight Hit; for as Tom had said to Robert and Matthew at breakfast over a week ago, when he announced his intention to captain the the village team, it was all a question of tactics. And he knew just what effect his nonchalant stride off into the wide blue yonder would have on Matthew.

As he strode onwards out towards the boundary, to add to his seeming air of detachment, Tom continued to toss the leather ball in the air, catching it deftly in his outstretched hand and rubbing it against the side of his trousers. Finally, having reached his intended destination, he turned, stood completely still and looked towards the distant figure of Matthew hunched over his bat.

An expectant hush now descended upon the assembled throng; not only among each and every member of the two opposing teams whether out here on the field or else clustered around the cricket pavilion but also among the men, women and children from off the estate; from down in the village; from farms and hamlets further afield, some from as far away as Ripon and who were now gathered around the boundary of the pitch or else seated on the slatted chairs and wooden benches over by the marquee. Afterwards in that split second before everything changed, Tom thought even the crows in the elms had fallen silent and for a moment time itself seemed to stand still.

So as to get a clearer view of what was happening, the boys and their grandfather had come out to stand in the sunshine in front of the scorer's hut. If truth be told, Robert himself was exceedingly glad to be here out in the fresh air; not that either of the boys had seemed to notice it but as the afternoon wore on, their grandfather thought it had become increasingly hot and stuffy inside the small hut.

And then Tom began his run, gathering speed, pounding back towards the crease.

Tom's ball flew wide.

Matthew threw down his bat.

Cora, Mary and Sybil all rose simultaneously to their feet.

And then, as those on and around the pitch began to point, to gesticulate and to shout, all five were running towards the scorer's hut; to where Danny and young Robert were kneeling sobbing beside the prostrate form of their grandfather.

* * *

The following morning, heavily laden with sacks of freshly ground flour from the corn mill down by the river and on his way to the bakery in the village, the driver of the motor lorry, Bert Paylor, paused momentarily to drop off the two boys who had hitched a lift seated on the tailgate.

Shouting their heartfelt thanks to Bert, both young Robert Crawley and Danny Branson had set off at a run all the way up the long drive leading to the house. Quite what Robert's mother would have had to say had she seen her young son and his cousin sitting riding through Downton on flour sacks piled in the back of Bert Paylor's lorry does probably not bear repetition. So it was probably just as well that at the time this occurred, Lady Mary Crawley was otherwise occupied with something of far greater import.

* * *

"Now, Papa, you know what Dr. Bell said yesterday!" admonished Mary in a tone reminiscent of that which she used towards her eldest son now aged all of nine years. With her mother and youngest sister looking on, Mary was sitting on the side of her father's bed. "And there's nothing whatsoever to worry about. Matthew is perfectly capable of running the estate by himself. What you need now is complete rest..."

Robert grimaced.

"Don't fuss..."

* * *

Shortening their route somewhat by cutting through the orchard, ducking and weaving their way beneath the heavy laden, moss-grown boughs of the apple trees, some time later, the two boys emerged breathless out onto the broad sweep of lawn in front of the abbey.

A moment's pause , followed by a quick sprint across the gravel, now brought them to the main door of the great house, which was opened for them by none other than Mr. Barrow himself.

"Well, well, if it isn't young Master Robert and Master Daniel...," began Barrow in the usual half-mocking, obsequious, supercilious tone he reserved especially for the younger generation of the Bransons and Crawleys.

This time, however, the boys scarcely seemed to hear him, let alone even deigned to acknowledge his presence. Given the circumstance, this was hardly surprising. For now, catching sight of Danny's much loved mother standing in her nurse's uniform at the top of the main staircase, fearing the worst, the boys raced past a clearly annoyed Barrow and ran full tilt up the stairs.

"Is Grandps all right?" asked Danny breathlessly.

"Is he..." began Robert before bursting into tears.

Seeing the two boys' frightened faces, Sybil opened wide her arms and hugged them tightly to her in the fondest, warmest of embraces.

"Oh, my darlings!" she exclaimed.

* * *

That very same morning, shortly after breakfast was over, in response to a long-standing invitation and for which, in the circumstances, their parents were very grateful, Danny and young Robert had wandered off through the fields down to the river, as far as the old water mill which stood close to Downton Halt. It seemed wrong to be out enjoying themselves when Grandps was so very ill but Ma was a nurse and **she** hadn't told them not to go. Anyway, when they returned home, they could go up and tell Grandps all about what they had seen and try and cheer him up a bit.

Down at the mill they had gazed spellbound at the enormous, rotating cast iron wheel and listened intently while the miller, old Alf Cotterill, explained to them how water from the mill pond was fed through a sluice and onto the paddles of the wheel. This done, Alf had led the two boys inside the old building to show them how the huge wheel powered all the machinery within the mill, with Danny and Robert contentedly spending the next few hours happily clambering up and down a succession of narrow wooden stairways; ducking their heads beneath low beamed ceilings, wandering wide eyed among a bewildering, dusty array of belts, chutes, cogs, grinding stones, hoists, hoppers, pulleys and wheels and watching while Alf and his son Ben ground corn into both flour and bran. Later, the boys had played their part in helping to repair the inner workings of the pump which fed water from the mill-race into a large galvanised tank down in the cellar. Thereafter, before they left the mill, seated on a pile of sacks, sitting out in the warmth of the bright morning sunshine, they were treated to both lemonade and gingerbread made by Alf's wife.

Of course, with his love of machinery and all things mechanical, time spent in repairing the pump in the cellar of the old mill had proved of especial interest to Danny. At least it was rather more beneficial than his experiment the previous week with the enormous stop cock - not that he had recognised it as such – which he had discovered up at the house situated below stairs in one of the warren of rooms, many of which were disused. It was in one of these, Danny had espied a large brass tap and which he felt compelled to turn. This he duly did and was singularly disappointed when, apparently, nothing then happened.

At the time, in eager anticipation of receiving by way of a reward a piece of her delicious apple pie, both Danny and young Robert were being exceedingly helpful and fetching the cook, Mrs. White, a variety of supplies from her several storerooms required for the evening's dinner party.

Having given the stop cock one final desultory turn, shrugging his shoulders, finally admitting defeat, Danny sighed and, somewhat dejectedly, loaded with various jars of potted pastes and preserves had set off down the passage, in pursuit of a likewise over burdened Robert, back as far as the kitchen. Here, having deposited their range of supplies on the enormous table, each duly fortified by a portion of Mrs. White's excellent apple pie, having thanked her politely, the two boys, who were both very popular with the domestic staff, had run off outside to play and, as far as young Danny was concerned, forgetting all about the stop cock.

Below stairs, in the long-abandoned room, the precise purpose which it had once served being lost in the mists of time, the pipework associated with the stop cock gurgled and rumbled menacingly. Moments later, amid a further cacophony of grumbling sounds the entire water supply to Downton Abbey now came to an abrupt and complete stop. Not that this was noticed by anyone immediately as, from its attics down to its cellars, possessed of what must have amounted to several miles of antiquated pipework serving the great house, it was some time before the effects of the turning off of the stop tap by Danny produced any noticeable result.

However, in the kitchen and upstairs throughout the great house, eventually,this proceeded to cause nothing short of complete mayhem. Unfortunately, the first anyone noticed that anything was at all wrong was in the kitchen; when the water supply to the sinks and the cumbersome cast iron range failed but not before the base of the latter had been completely burnt out. Not that Mrs. White minded, for ever since her arrival at Downton as a replacement for Mrs. Patmore, the antiquated nature of the range had been a source of continuing complaint on her part to Mrs. Dalloway the new housekeeper.

Upstairs, there having been a dinner party the previous evening, held for the Braithwaites from Langthorpe Hall, here at Downton Abbey everyone in the family had risen later than was usual. Having finished shaving,Tom was in the process of swilling out the washbasin when the water streaming out of the cold tap came to a sudden stop while a few doors away Robert was in his dressing room cleaning his teeth when the same thing happened. And, yet further down the corridor, Mary was languidly luxuriating in the delights of a deliciously hot bath, gnawing on a raw carrot, for which, following Rebecca's birth, she had developed an intense, post partum craving.

Understandably, Mary had assumed that her craving for carrots would pass but it was now some months since Rebecca had been born. Indeed, in her continuing craving for raw carrots, Mary had even gone so far as to encourage young Robert to plant not one but two rows of the self same vegetable in his meticulously ordered patch in the kitchen garden. In this, much to the surprise of both her husband and their eldest son, Mary now took an inexplicable and inordinate interest; even going as far as to suggest to a disconsolate young Robert that it was probably rabbits which accounted for the loss of part of his crop. The bath water was just slightly too hot and Mary now reached for the cold tap, turned it, only to find that nothing happened. Mystified, she shook her head and, still nibbling, sank contentedly back into the water.

At least when the water ceased to flow into his washbasin, Tom had the good sense to turn off the tap. Not so either Robert or Mary. Thus it was, several hours later, long after both had vacated their bedrooms, when what it was that had caused the sudden cessation of supply had been divined, with its restoration water from the now overflowing basin in Robert's dressing room and the tub in Mary's bathroom began to cascade through the ceiling of the Morning Room, had it not been for the prompt action of Barrow and other members of the staff, the damage to this part of the house would have been considerably worse.

Fortunately, in the ensuing pandemonium, no-one ever paused to consider how it was the stop cock came to be turned off in the first place, that being attributed solely to the age of the valve which was duly replaced and at a not inconsiderable expense by a plumber from Ripon; Mrs. White received the benefit of the installation of a splendid new range and Danny, singularly unaware that he was the culprit who initiated the whole debacle, happily avoided any form of retribution.

* * *

"And it's all our fault," had sobbed Danny inconsolably. "If... if we hadn't gone out in the Skylark..."

Along with Robert, he was sitting on his parents' bed while his mother hugged him and his cousin just as tightly as when she had met them but a short while ago at the top of the stairs.

"It's no-one's fault, my darlings. Sometimes these things just happen".

"But Grandps will be all right, won't he, Ma?"

Sybil nodded.

"Yes, my darling. But it will take a long time. You can go in and see him now but you must promise me you'll both be very quiet. He's very, very tired".

"We promise,"replied the boys solemnly.

* * *

**Heidelberg, Baden, Germany, May 1929.**

"And just how long will you be gone this time?" With little Josef held fast in her arms, Margarethe stood back on the door step and looked thoughtfully at her husband.

Fergal smiled broadly.

"A couple of months at most; no longer. I'll be back in time for our trip to Obersalzberg at the end of July, for sure. I promise". He smiled broadly; an endearing lop-sided grin.

"And there's no point me asking..."  
Fergal shook his head.

"No, you know there isn't for sure". He fondled the flaxen head of his eldest son. Of their three children, Ronan now aged five was the most like him in looks. Aidan aged four favoured his mother, while little Josef was a sum of them both.

"Well, if I'm to catch the train for Berlin, I'd best be off".

And, moments later, he was gone.

Inside the house on Zähringerstrasse, for a moment Margarethe leaned heavily against the closed front door and sighed, thinking that with Fergal it had ever been thus; here today, gone tomorrow.

No, on reflection, that was neither right nor fair.

It had only been so since a couple of years ago.

Not that they ever spoke of it.

As far as anyone, both inside and outside the family, knew, Fergal still held some minor post in the Ministerium für Auswärtige Angelegenheiten, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; although exactly what it was that he did remained something of a mystery to one and all. It was understood that Fergal had secured his position through a mixture of bluff, charm, good looks, innate intelligence and thanks also in no small measure to the munificent influence wielded by a family friend of Margarethe's late father; or so at least it had been assumed at the time of Fergal's appointment.

The reality was somewhat different.

Here in Germany, at least in certain circles, the antipathy of the Irish for the British was widely known, so unsurprisingly it was not long before someone in authority in provincial Heidelberg had alerted the Foreign Ministry on the Wilhelmstrasse in Berlin that in the Irish born son-in-law of the late Professor Rieck they had the makings of a keen ally. True the Irishman was quick tempered and on occasions a little rough around the edges but putting all that to one aside, it was considered his connections with the IRA, his hatred of the British and a what turned out to be natural talent for deception could, in due course, all be made to serve a purpose beneficial to the Fatherland.

Amongst those persons who were of this opinion were several individuals who had links to those who were intent on circumventing the provisions of the Versailles Treaty which severely limited the size of the German army and navy and which in turn had led Fergal to being recruited not as was believed into the Foreign Ministry but, in fact, into the ranks of the Abwehr: German military intelligence.

Now, had it not been for a single moment's carelessness on the part of Fergal the previous Christmas, Margarethe would not have discovered that during these last two years, when she had assumed him to be at his desk in the Foreign Office building on the Wilhemstrasse in Berlin issuing visas and so forth, in reality her young husband had often been absent abroad.

Indeed, she would have continued in her state of blissful ignorance was it not for the fact that, when having partaken rather too freely of a bottle of Irish whiskey given to them by one of their friends, Fergal had left the desk in his study both open and unlocked, whereupon Margarethe had chanced upon the letter from von Schliecher and all had become clear.

That Fergal had kept from her the fact that he was working for the Abwehr came as no particular surprise. He had always been secretive and while Margarethe loved him desperately even now, after nearly five years of marriage and three children, on a personal level,there was some distant part of him which she could never reach. From a chance remark he had once made, she knew it was something to do with his father; how he had abused and abandoned Fergal's mother, deprived Fergal of his birthright and understood also that this man was somehow related to an English aristocratic family but more than that Margarethe knew not.

In the hall, time seemed to stand still and with that in mind, Margarethe now did what she always did when Fergal left on one of his journeys; she stopped the pendulum of the clock and kept it so until he returned. For some unfathomable reason she thought it kept him safe.

* * *

**Cork, Irish Free State, June 1929.**

While en route from Bremen to Bordeaux, engine trouble was the official reason given for the SS Ostpreussen thereafter altering course and putting in at Cork and so it was entered in the ship's log. Not of course that there was any truth in it. And none but her captain and first officer were aware of the existence on board of her single passenger.

In the cold grey light of dawn, as seen from the gently heaving deck of the nondescript cargo steamer which had brought him here from Bremen, the view of Cork had changed little if at all in the past five years. On the opposite side of the river both the City Hall on Albert Quay and the nearby Carnegie Library, each set alight and gutted on the night when the Black and Tans had fired the city back in December 1920, had still not been rebuilt. Now, while the city yet slumbered, unobserved and without so much as a single backward glance, the man heaved his heavy rucksack onto his shoulder and marched briskly down the gangway to where the motor awaited him.

While his passport gave his identity as Connor McCarthy, hailing from Tralee, Fergal had not been back to the Free State since he and Margarethe had sailed from Cobh back in 1924. During the intervening five years, he had written to the Ryans, sent them photographs of his and Margarethe's children, birthday good wishes and so forth.

However, when several hours later, he turned in at what, a lifetime ago, had been the main entrance to Skerries House, he had no intention of paying a visit to the farm to see his adoptive parents and brothers. It was better for all concerned, not least himself, that no-one known to him became aware that he was back here in Cork.

In any event his time here down in the south of the country would be of but brief duration. No later than tonight he would be catching the express train from Cork, first to Dublin and then eventually crossing the border into Northern Ireland at Dundalk by which time he would have assumed the identity of Joseph Lynch a commercial traveller for Caffrey's Ulster Brewery on Queen Street in Belfast.

Then north westwards to Londonderry on the banks of the River Foyle to ascertain how much mischief could be caused to the British government by exploiting a bitter legacy of partition; the ongoing sectarian strife in the city. Further westwards still, to Buncrana on the eastern shore of gale swept Lough Swilly, to make a surreptitious reconnaissance of the British fortifications at Lenan and Dunree protecting this the most northerly on the three Treaty Ports.

And, providing all went well, back to Belfast from where and still in the guise of the ever useful Mr. Lynch, Fergal would be taking ship for Liverpool and England; heading east by train, across the Pennines, to Manchester and thence north east to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, there to photograph covertly the harbours, the munitions factories, the ship building installations and the batteries protecting the naval bases.

Information and photographs which if found upon him by the British authorities would undoubtedly lead to Fergal being charged with treason and an early appointment either with the hangman Thomas William Pierrepoint or else a military firing squad; after all, like it or not, the Irish Free State was still very much a part of the dominions of His Majesty King George V.

But Fergal had no intention whatsoever of being caught by the British.

Whether or not the passport on which he was travelling was forged – indeed it was and a damned fine forgery at that - here in the Irish Free State, in the far south of Ireland, he was safe enough. In any case, now, for the time being at least, another rather more important matter claimed his full attention.: that of paying his respects at his late mother's grave. While he would leave neither wreath nor flowers - to do so would betray that someone had been there - one thing he did intend doing was renewing the vow he had made here some five years since: of wreaking vengeance upon Tom Branson and all whom he held most dear.

* * *

**Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, July 1929.**

Dressed in white shirts, their sleeves rolled up, wearing khaki shorts with ties for belts, bare legged and in canvas shoes, carefree, giggling and laughing, the two young boys ran on happily through the woods, the sunlight dappling down through the leafy canopy of the trees.

To one and all here on the Downton Abbey estate, that they were inseparable was well known ; indeed, unbeknownst to the both of them, their maternal grandparents and parents had remarked upon this singularly unassailable fact over dinner the previous evening, provoking much amusement and merriment all round the dining table. Similar in age, the two boys were like the opposite sides of the very same coin, with young Danny Branson being but a year or so older than his much-loved cousin Robert Crawley who, somewhat surprisingly for someone who, all things being equal, would one day inherit the Downton Abbey estate, was, at least for now, rather a natural follower than a leader.

Both boys were fortunate in that they possessed the good looks and charm of their respective fathers but although Robert's colouring matched that of Matthew, as Danny had grown older, while in all other respects he was the image of his Irish father, his hair had darkened to match that of his mother. Much as Tom and Matthew were not only brothers-in-law but also the closest of best friends, their two sons were likewise not only first cousins but equally utterly devoted to each other.

Whenever the Bransons were staying at Downton Abbey, Danny and Robert invariably shared a bedroom and spent the long summer days roaming about the estate together, wandering into the barns and stables of Home Farm, helping the gardeners both in the walled garden and in the hothouses and sharing a fascination for all things mechanical could also be found each year, much to Robert's mother's chagrin, helping out with the harvest, coming home happy as sand boys, tired, hot and dirty, begrimed with soot and oil from the traction engine being used to power the pulsating, rattling threshing machine.

This year, one evening after dinner was over and it was time for bed, neither of the two boys could be found anywhere in the house; nor, indeed, could Tom and it was this fact and something which he had said to her earlier in the day which before a general search began had suggested to Sybil where the errant trio might now be found. A short walk down to the old garage, with Matthew and Mary in attendance, proved the truthfulness of Sybil's suspicions.

Here in the gathering dusk in front of the garage they saw several lighted hurricane lanterns had been placed on the ground; at the same time were greeted by the sound of voices and the amusing sight of three pairs of feet, one large and two small, surrounded by a selection of neatly ordered tools, protruding out from beneath the elderly Renault. Sybil smiled. Tom was nothing if not methodical.

These days, the elderly Renault which, while it undoubtedly held exceedingly fond memories for both Tom and Sybil, was now only used on short journeys to take members of staff to neighbouring houses, down to the station to collect the luggage of house guests and so forth.

Matthew, Mary and Sybil had listened silently, amused, while, singularly unaware that they were there, Tom explained to the two boys what it was he was repairing and why. A moment later and something metallic clattered harshly onto the cobbles beneath the motor, which in turn was followed quickly by an Irish expletive mouthed and then smothered by Tom.

"Now, don't either of yous go repeating that word. Not unless yous want Ma or your Mama to skin me alive!" he hissed.

"We won't Da! We won't Uncle Tom! Promise!" earnestly chorused the two boys.

"Well, that's all right then for sure". They heard Tom breathe a distinctly audible sigh of relief.

"Actually, Branson, it isn't," said Sybil leaning down and at the same time rapping smartly on the bonnet of the motor.

"No, indeed it isn't, Branson," echoed Mary, who in spite of herself was desperately trying to keep a straight face, while Matthew failed miserably in trying to suppress a laugh.

On hearing his wife's voice and then that of his sister-in-law, blushing red, grinning self-consciously in the lamplight, followed by Danny and then by young Robert, Tom slid out from beneath the motor, the faces and hands of one and all liberally smeared with both grease and engine oil.

"We've been fixing the... er... Renault". Wiping his hands on an already soiled piece of cotton, his eyes sparkling, tossing the scrap of rag to the two boys and nodding for them to do likewise, Tom grinned broadly.

"So we heard. Honestly, Tom! Just look at the state of you all!" exclaimed Sybil.

"I think you two boys have some explaining to do. Worrying both your mothers like that," chided Matthew gently.

"And you owe Nanny Bridges an apology too," added Mary.

"Come on now, you two. Back to the house; then straight upstairs and into the bath the pair of you. Yes, yes, you can tell me all about what you and Uncle Tom have been doing but on the way". Smiling, Matthew placed his arms gently about the boys' shoulders and, followed by Mary, shepherded the two excited, talkative youngsters up the path which led back to the abbey. The sound of their footsteps and voices dwindled and faded into silence.

A short while later, having put away the tools, extinguished the lanterns and closed the garage doors, with his sleeves rolled up and his jacket swinging nonchalantly over his shoulder, arm in arm Tom and Sybil set off slowly up the narrow path. At a bend in the track, he paused, took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, leaving, when they broke apart, as Sybil found, a dark smudge of engine oil upon her cheek.

With the tips of his fingers, gently he rubbed the affected cheek but given the state of his hands, this only served to make things worse.

"Honestly, Tom, you're absolutely filthy!" She giggled.

"There now, yous look like an abandoned woman for sure!" He laughed; brushed back a stray tendril of her hair.

"And you, Branson, need a bath!"

"Offering to strip me naked and scrub me down, your Ladyship?" he asked with his cheeky lopsided grin.

"I might be," she said coyly. A moment later and she felt the familiar yearning begin to stir. She found herself thinking back to another time, years ago, on the front steps of Skerries House, when in the sunshine she had come upon Tom stripped to the waist beginning repairs to his beloved motorcycle.

When he was missing, presumed dead by everyone except for Sybil herself, she had told her mother that with Tom sometimes all it took from him to arouse her was a single word; a simple look across a crowded room. Here in the soft darkness of a summer's evening, it was but a thought: the thought of Tom naked, the muscles of his bare back rippling beneath her practised fingers.

"Well, then, Mrs. Branson, lead on! I'm putty in your hands!"

Laughing, once more arm in arm, they set off again up the path in the gloaming towards the distant house.

Two against the world.

* * *

Apart from being well liked up at the Big House, Danny and young Robert were equally well known and liked down in Downton too, with their repeated visits to the handful of retired members of the abbey's domestic staff who had been given cottages at a peppercorn rent in the village as well as calling in to see the wheelwright and Harry Clegg the smith at the forge. Indeed, Harry had been heard to remark over a pint in the Grantham Arms that he would have been proud to have had either boy for a son of his own. Given the fact that Harry's only son, Ernest, aged just seventeen, had gone down in HMS Queen Mary at the Battle of Jutland, this was praise indeed.

A matter of days after the incident involving the repair of the Renault, the two boys arrived back at the abbey just in time for afternoon tea, their faces flushed, both pleased as punchand each carrying a horseshoe which, helped by Harry they had made down at the forge. Their grandparents and fathers were all much impressed with Danny and Robert's combined endeavours, Tom observing wryly that if ever the Downton abbey estate required a new blacksmith, it need look no further than his young nephew. Mary looked horrified at the very suggestion and while doing her best to follow Sybil's lead in complimenting the endeavours of their two young sons, firmly drew the line at Matthew's suggestion that Robert's lovingly crafted horseshoe be nailed to the wall over their marital bed. Instead, flanked by paintings by both Gainsborough and Reynolds, it was allowed to take pride of place over Matthew's desk downstairs in the Small Library.

Later that same day, after dinner was over, with the younger children long since having been put to bed, having washed and changed into their pyjamas and dressing gowns, the two boys came downstairs to the Drawing Room to say goodnight to their parents and grandparents.

"Goodnight then boys..."

With evident reluctance, Danny and Robert now turned to leave the room. Catching sight of their mournful faces, Tom grinned. He let the boys reach the door before he called out to them, stopping them in their tracks.

"Did yous think I'd forgotten? Come here and sit down the pair of yous".

Doubtfully, the boys turned back. "I promised to read them a bedtime story," explained Tom. He shot a questioning look at Sybil; saw her incline her head and smile. Tom grinned broadly at the boys, then nodded in turn at Danny who, knowing what this betokened, now scrambled happily onto his Da's lap resting his head comfortably against his father's shoulder.

Seeing Robert momentarily hanging back, Tom patted the sofa beside him whereupon the boy smiled contentedly and without further ado promptly sat down next to his uncle who slipped his arm comfortingly around his nephew's shoulders.

Amused in spite of himself, the boys' grandfather, moved slowly across the room to stand quietly beside the fireplace next to with his English son-in-law Matthew, while Cora, Mary and Sybil all took seats on the sofa opposite Tom and the boys, each and everyone, now waiting for Tom to begin reading. Seeing the look of anticipation upon their faces,Tom smiled his endearing lop-sided grin.

"Perhaps I should put my cap down and charge for this for sure!" laughed Tom picking up a book from off the table beside him. Danny's head popped up in alarm.

"Da! That's not fair!"

"How so?"

"For one thing, Da ... Rob and me, we don't have any money. And... and anyway, you're always telling Saiorse and me... that we have to do our chores **before** Ma gives us our pocket money!"

"Uncle Tom..." began young Robert doubtfully. He paused; looked for reassurance towards his father. Matthew nodded his head encouragingly.

"Yes?" asked Tom.

"Well, my father... he's a solicitor and he... he only sends bills to the people he does work for... when he's done it". This from Robert now coming to the aid of his cousin and friend.

Tom glanced at Matthew; saw him nod his head and smile in amusement.

"So, come on Da, read us the story first, **then** you'll get paid!" demanded Danny insistently, his reasoning and obvious heartfelt indignation at what he saw as rank injustice drawing smiles all round.

"Hoist by your own petard, I think, Tom!" The earl of Grantham laughed, then smiled broadly at his grandsons."Don't you worry, you two, I won't pay him a penny, not until he's read you your story! And then, only if I like it!"

"I'll second that!" chuckled Matthew

"Now wait just a minute, you four! You're all joining forces against me!" exclaimed Tom with mock indignation.

"Indeed we are!" chuckled his father-in-law.

"Sybil, love, say something!" pleaded Tom.

"Don't go dragging me into this!" giggled Sybil.

"But you're my wife! I expect you to support me!"

"Really? Then think again Mr. Branson. You're always telling me to make up my own mind about things. And in this, I'm maintaining a position of strict neutrality".

"And, before you ask, so am I!" laughed Cora.

"As for me, don't even ask!" exclaimed Mary. She shot a fond glance at her husband. Matthew winked broadly at her and young Robert grinned. His father always seemed so much happier when Uncle Tom was around.

"As an ex-military man, may I offer you some advice, old chap?" asked Matthew with mock solemnity.

"Which is what?" asked Tom suspiciously.

"In the face of overwhelming odds, I suggest unconditional surrender!"

Danny and Robert exchanged glances; while both of them understood the word _surrender_, neither were at all sure what _unconditional_ meant.

Tom ruffled his son's dark hair; grinned broadly at his nephew.

"All right, you two, you win," said Tom softly. The two youngsters cheered, their cherubic faces lit in boyish epiphany; Danny snuggled against his Da while Robert rested his head against his uncle's shoulder. Silence enfolded the room and outside the darkness drew down as everyone waited for Tom to begin.

As Sybil knew well, Tom was a gifted storyteller; his handsome features capable of assuming a variety of expressions and his voice possessed of an exceptionally wide range, enabling him to take on convincingly the guise of all manner of characters. And, as Tom continued to read the first chapter of "The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu", Sybil found herself reflecting on the countless times she had sat and listened to Tom while he read or told bedtime stories to each of their three children: first to Danny, then also to Saiorse and now as well to dear little Bobby, aged three, the baby of the family, in their modest home in Idrone Terrace, across the sea in Ireland.

Like her youngest daughter, Cora sat entranced, smiling fondly at Tom, thinking back to what Sybil had told her about him years ago, while he was missing, then presumed dead, how in his work as a journalist, he nearly always managed to strike up an instant rapport with all manner of people from different walks of life, with both young and old, but especially with children. Cora reflected too on how nearly it was that they had come to missing all of this when, a lifetime since or so it seemed now, the family had so bitterly opposed Tom's marriage to Sybil; a couple who, Cora knew could not be more suited.

Mary too was in a contemplative and reflective mood; remembering back to the evening which followed Tom and Sybil's marriage recalling how he had held his young nephew Padraig spellbound with his story of a dragon called the Dowager Countess and who lived in a deep, dark cave called the Dower House somewhere on the Downton Abbey estate.

That summer's evening, sitting quietly on the sofa in the Drawing Room here at Downton, watching and listening to Tom weave his magic, Sybil smiled with absolute contentment. Here she was, having been blissfully married for over ten years to a man who absolutely adored her and whom she loved beyond measure, blessed with three happy, healthy children, with Tom a rising star in his chosen profession just having been appointed Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent and she herself having resumed her nursing career at the Coombe.

With the manifold difficulties the two of them had encountered, faced together and surmounted, with the heartbreak caused by Tom's disappearance and presumed death, the destruction of Skerries and the death of his cousin Maeve now all but distant memories and with each passing year fading further into history, Sybil was left wondering just how much better life could possibly be. Had she stopped to think, Sybil might just have recalled that sometimes _as flies to wanton boys are we to the gods._

* * *

**Cricket**?

Seated on their mother's bed, Saiorse sighed heavily and now pulled a face akin to the one she normally assumed when Ma made her swallow a dose of cough medicine. Cricket was bad enough but what was even worse was that this afternoon, with Danny and that insufferable boy Robert off enjoying themselves playing cricket with Da and Uncle Matthew, that would mean she herself was left with no-one else to play with except for silly, stupid Simon.

"Darling, I think what Da actually said was he and Uncle Matthew would play cricket with you, if they were back in time to do so. And as for your grandfather, well you know that since last year, he hasn't been very well..."

"Grandps is fine now!" insisted Danny. For a moment, his eyes glistened. He loved his grandfather so very much.

Sybil nodded her head and smiled.

Last year, in the aftermath of her father's heart attack, to Downton at the request of the Crawleys had come Sir Henry Souttar, the eminent surgeon from London. In private he had warned them all that even with a long period of complete rest as prescribed by the local doctor and then no physical exertion whatsoever, nothing could be done; it was only a matter of time. So, although Sybil knew differently from her young son, why, thought she, destroy his boyish belief that his beloved grandfather had made a complete and full recovery?

"Cricket's boring," said Saiorse. She folded her arms and pouted.

"No, it isn't, sis".

"Yes, **it** is!"

* * *

In the distance, through the trees, a plume of white steam pulsed upwards into the still afternoon air and a whistle sounded; followed moments later by the rhythmic exhaust beat of the engine as it began labouring up the 1 in 62 gradient towards Downton Halt.

"Come on, Rob! If we're quick we can give a wave to my Da and your Dad on the 4.30. I'll race you!" shouted Danny joyfully with a backwards grin over his right shoulder.

Close to the edge of the woods, where the trees began to thin, clearly visible ahead of the two carefree, laughing boys, the damp, narrow track wound its way ever onwards, twisting among high banks of fern, across the greensward of the meadow with its carpet of wild flowers and towards the post and wire fence bordering the railway.

Up on the hillside overlooking the line, hidden in the dense bracken, just below Bluebell Wood, alerted to the boys' presence by the sound of their gleeful, treble voices, now, having made one final adjustment to the telescopic sight of his 9mm Mannlicher rifle, the man lay and waited.

Moments later and the shrill blast of the locomotive's whistle served conveniently to mask the sound of the single shot. With blood streaming from his shoulder, young Danny Branson dropped like a stone and sank into unconsciousness.

* * *

**Cottage Hospital, Downton, Yorkshire, England, July 1929.**

"I'm so very sorry... for all you've had to go through. The operation went well. He's young and strong and, given time, he'll make a full recovery," explained the kindly surgeon.

And in that, eventually, he was proved right, although it was several months before Danny regained complete use of his arm. Despite the best efforts of the local police, the whole incident remained a complete mystery. In the end it was put down to a tragic accident. Whoever had pulled the trigger, a poacher seemed the most likely explanation, who was, in all likelihood, singularly unaware of what had happened. The shot must have missed its intended target, ricocheted and hit Danny by mistake. After all, who in their right mind would deliberately target a ten year old boy?

* * *

**Heidelberg, Baden, Germany, July 1929.**

Well pleased with the way everything had gone, Fergal returned safely to Germany, made his report to his superiors in Berlin and, as he had promised, took Margarethe and the children on holiday to Obersalzberg.

**Author's Note:**

General Kurt Ferdinand Friedrich Hermann von Schleicher (1882-1934) saw military service during the Great War and eventually served as the second to last Chancellor of Germany during the Weimar Republic. With others in the Black Reichswehr, he successfully worked to circumvent the provisions of the Treaty of Versailles which limited the size of Germany's armed forces. In 1934, during the Night of the Long Knives, he was assassinated on the orders of Hitler.

There really was a cargo ship named the SS Ostpreussen. Built in 1920, she was sunk by torpedo, in 1941, off the coast of Norway. Whether she made an unscheduled visit to Cork in the summer of 1929, the records are silent!


End file.
